Liam & Liz
by irislim
Summary: She loves her job and hates her boss. He finds the new intern (unlike the girl he's been writing) a distraction at best. But sometimes, your soul mate and your mortal enemy can be one and the same. A hint of You've Got Mail with a heavy dose of modern-day travel.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: For the record, Airbnb has not, in any way, shape, or form, given me any money or incentive to write this story. If they did, I would be a decently-earning writer rather than an aspiring one! I do hope this modern AU isn't too far out there for anyone!_

* * *

His Uber pulls up the now-familiar road, slowing more than screeching to a full stop. Despite the inevitable stress of the following morning (because _why _does his aunt need to insist on living in the middle of Rosings, Nowhere, Ohio?), he feels a small smile tugging at his lips.

They had a pretty ugly battle royal the first time he stormed out of the de Bourgh estate, costly and shiny luggage in tow, and crashed in the most decent Airbnb he could find within a five-mile radius. It didn't have any reviews back then, and it had been a little unnerving to realize the host - despite her sensible profile picture - was married to a man who basically _idolized_ his aunt. But, beggars can't be choosers.

And that's how William Darcy found his Ohio home.

"Have a good day," his driver - John, he thinks - greets by way of a polite head nod before Darcy deposits himself and his stripped-down work travel gear on to the sidewalk. It's 1:30, a little too early for check-in; but he knows Mrs. Collins wouldn't mind.

"Hey, come on in." She doesn't disappoint when he rings the doorbell. After years spent among clawing, ambitious New York she-wolves who either wanted his money or his job, Darcy hadn't taken long to warm up to the modest, down-to-earth Charlotte Collins. He knows she's around his age, and there's still a youthful vigor to how she attacks her matronly jobs. But at least she's married, and she's kind, and she's never gone out of her way to impress him (if fellow Airbnb reviewers are anything to go by).

It helps to feel, of course, that he's somehow beaten the DBC system by spending only half of his lodging allowance on the private wing of the Collins home. He's technically being paid extra for staying somewhere clean, cozy, and secluded - and to have those divine pancakes Mrs. Collins always manages to whip up at all hours of the day - without having to tolerate the volatile temper of the great and only living founder of the great De Bourgh Corporation.

"You know the drill," says his hostess, with a gentle smile, before leaving him to the privacy of his very own wing of the house.

It helps to have a home away from home - where the comforts of middle America soothe his overexcited NYC senses, where too much wood and too much fabric replace the too much metal, glass, and chrome of his downtown Manhattan flat. It's different, and it's always what he needs when he has to fly to fulfill his mother's deathbed wish.

It's not as if modern technology requires him to be _physically _present for DBC's quarterly meetings. But he did promise his mother to "help" the family - to maintain ties that meant so much to her even when they'd already lost all meaning to anyone else. As a devoted son, he vowed fervently to keep his promise.

As a devoted son, he fights his every instinct to the contrary, and keeps on keeping his promise.

The sheer curtains give him a tasteful glimpse of the growing fall colors. The Collins home is nestled on a quiet street - and it's always hard to imagine the brewing storm that is Aunt Catherine whenever he's ensconced in this side of town.

Still feeling the plane ride in his bones, he strays towards the queen bed, stretching out his limbs in the process. There are days when he's viciously irritated that airlines don't even bother offering business class for this route, because God knows he would be willing to pay every penny of the price difference. There are also days when he's just thankful two airlines have decided to offer this route _at all_.

Who knows how long he would actually keep his promise to his mother if he has to bloody _drive_ from the bustling East Coast to the middle of nowhere?

He groans when his back hits the mattress, and he almost contemplates taking a power nap in his suit. As usual, he had to fight TSA security way too early this morning, just to catch his flight and arrive a day early for a meeting he doesn't even really care to attend.

_'VP of Operations, DBC'_ always looks impressive on his card. His mother's family did manage to build a globally-acclaimed fabric empire out of nothing. And even his own father, for all his wealth and holdings in England, for all his charity and generosity this side of the pond, never earned the same name-recognition that his brother-in-law had. George Darcy passed on plenty of intellectual property and assets to his children - but nearly all of Darcy's liquid assets were from his mother.

And it is an eternally sad fact that Aunt Catherine _never _forgets.

A loud thud echoes from the middle of the bed when Darcy tosses his arm out a little too violently. The place isn't particularly big enough for him, but there's a subtle romance to the quaintness of it all.

He chuckles hollowly. Short, cramped flights came hand in hand with zero entertainment options - so he's polished his fiction-reading habits increasingly over the years. One can't really hunch over a laptop on a tiny cabin tray when his own knees can barely fold up enough to squeeze him into the pod-like space.

So here he is - the great and lonesome William Darcy - lying down on a snug queen bed feeling every bit the tragic heroine trapped in an unwilling life while his friends and family pass him by.

This little space, that he books in advance every time, where he _chooses _to stay with his own hard-earned money - is one of the very few pieces of life he gets to control.

And, more than once, it's one of the last footholds left holding him back from quitting his job, fleeing this country, and starting over as the eccentric mad scientist he knows his father, in one way or another, always was.

Outside the house, the sound of a car pulling in signals that he's spent way too much time moping already. Billy Collins, for all his silly adoration, is a diligent salesman - who used up all his apparent life wisdom in marrying a prudent wife.

Darcy almost laughs again at his own stray thoughts - and rolls himself up to unpack.

* * *

_A/N: Buckle up, folks, because this is one of my longer ones. I don't have a great track record for modern AUs (they just always seem to be less popular than any Regency ones I attempt), but I'm really, really hoping this one will prove enjoyable for everyone!_


	2. Chapter 2

"Lizzie, you'll be _fine_." Her phone reception crackles just a little bit.

"But what if they don't like it? I can't skip rent _again_ this month." Lizzie grimaces when the back of her neck lands on the part of the couch that's clearly the worst for wear - jutting frames beneath flimsy cloth. She's forever happy for Jane - traipsing around somewhere in Africa with her medical hero of a husband - helping the needy and aiding the poor. It's nice to see at least one bosom friend happily settled.

But it really is inevitable that Jane finding her happily-ever-after so soon in life means leaving her sister, who stubbornly refuses to even _consider_ moving back in with their parents, as much a part of the poor and needy as one can find in their relatively affluent neighborhood.

"You know you can always stay here," Charlotte offers, ever calm. The telltale clink of china in the background indicates that it's afternoon tea time for her childhood friend.

"Your husband doesn't like it," Lizzie groans, knowing she's just stating the obvious.

It's not that she blames him. Billy Collins, for all his blind diligence and general ordinariness, is neither a remarkable nor rich man. To his credit, he did survive a couple of years in law school before dropping out; but an odd-jobs salesman can only make so much. The income generated from their small Airbnb property is probably more significant than dispensable to the Collins household, and Lizzie can't really fault her lovely friend's husband for wishing Lizzie was a regular visitor of the paying sort.

"He has nothing against you. You know that." Charlotte never raises her voice.

It's probably a quality that drew Billy Collins to her in the first place.

"He probably has one against my wallet."

"And he's doing something about that, isn't he?"

"Yeah, I know." Lizzie shifts - squirms, really - until she's at least not sitting on any loose springs on her pathetic excuse of a couch. When she dropped out of grad school last year, the bohemian ideal of a starving artist had seemed much more romantic in her mind. The word 'starving,' in particular, had never hit home until the day she realized she's ten bucks away from overdrawing her account.

She leans forward to scroll down on her precious laptop, the most expensive item in her studio apartment - balanced precariously on a multi-stained, multi-chipped coffee table.

"I should thank him for this referral," Lizzie mumbles into her not-so-smartphone, her hands shaking just a little from her hidden nerves.

"And I'm sure DBC will _love _your designs."

"I certainly hope so."

She does hope - on most days, she hopes too much. That's why, on some other days, she tries not to hope at all.

DBC's submission guidelines for this project weren't particularly stringent, or descriptive.

She's probably spent more time analyzing the requirements than creating the actual design. Colors come to her naturally - swirls, patterns, and images. Where Jane was always the perfect child, patent and proper and everything a nurse ought to be, Lizzie was the counterpart - the dork, the misfit, the awkward creative.

She has her guilty pleasures, but the occasional girly indulgence doesn't make her dress or act in any way girlier than average. For professionalism's sake, she does minimal make-up and owns her own share of fashionable button-downs. She wears contacts when she has to, and her naturally straight locks can be combed into pretty decent updos or blow-dried into submission.

On most days, though, she just works in her dark-rimmed glasses and plaid pajamas.

"If I land this client, I'm paying you back for all the times I crashed at your place," she promises Charlotte, not quite taking into full account just how much she probably owes her friend.

The warm laugh is instant. "I wouldn't ask that of you."

"But your marriage will thank me for it, I'm sure." Lizzie does one more proof of the flowery print and the plaid one, mentally crossing her fingers that her client would prefer the latter. She'll have to submit them tonight, and a familiar hope starts bubbling again.

"You don't even come all that often."

"Uh huh." Lizzie chuckles. Leave it to Charlotte to downplay it all. "When's the next open date, by the way? If they accept my proposal, I may need to present it in person to Ms. de Bourgh."

"For the room?"

"Yup."

"My current guest is staying until Friday - so the weekend's open all the way until Tuesday."

"Great! Can I come over on Sunday?"

"Blocked it off already."

"Thanks, Char. You're the best." Lizzie smiles, because her friend - despite the short estrangement they experienced over her disapproval of Charlotte's choice of groom - really was the best.

"Remember to bring your beige coat. It's been getting chilly earlier this year."

Lizzie lets her mind wander away from her designs for just that split second for a quick intellectual catalogue of which sets of her clothes _aren't _in her dump of a hamper just then.

"Darn it, Char, you're gonna hate me for this."

"For what?"

"Sorry if this costs you your perfect ratings, but I - I think I left my coat in your guest wing."

There's a short pause, as if Charlotte were doing her own mental inventory too.

"It's a familiar client. I should be able to get it from him. No worries."

Lizzie feels the relief alleviating just a bit of her stress. "Thanks, Char. I'll see you next week. Hope my car holds up in the weather."

Charlotte's laugh is gentle again. "I'm sure it will."

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for the positive response to the first chapter! Just this once, I'm posting two chapters in a row just to get the story rolling :)_


	3. Chapter 3

Could his aunt be any more stubborn?

The answer, of course, is an unmistakable 'no' - because who can ever beat Catherine de Bourgh in a staring contest?

Darcy groans, loudly, before shoving the door closed with the back of his head.

He gets a part of the logic, really. The company's image as old money is losing its glamor. It needs fresh blood. It needs an image of acceptance and opportunity.

It's just that if things were really up to the young VP, the so-called fresh blood would be sourced from much more, say, _reputable _sources - maybe Harvard, maybe Columbia, maybe even a good-old _Shark Tank _style interview of up-and-coming talent. It needs to be something controllable.

The Internet is all well and good, but who knows what kind of creeps and scammers dwell in its depths? And what did a robust, aging woman know about Internet safety anyway?

And why did she announce this supposed special competition way _before _he's heard a word of it?

Darcy can't help the low-key cursing he lets loose as he tosses his coat on the back of the desk chair and tumbles for the bed.

He rolls from standing to sitting to stretching until the back of his head hits the covers. William Darcy doesn't really _do _childish gestures. His whole life has been lived on legacy - prestige, philanthropy, pride. Any stray thoughts he may ever have had about forging his own path all these years have been repeatedly quenched by a family as well-versed in Greek guilt as if they hailed from the Mediterranean. Despite any concerns he may have at different junctures of his adult life, he's remained irrefutably loyal to his family's causes.

Maybe that's why it's such a gut punch to see his family finally embracing change - without even consulting him.

In so many ways, he feels responsible and powerful. In so many other ways, he knows he's basically William Darcy - VP of Nothing, DBC.

Darcy takes a series of deep breaths to soothe his agitated senses. The contrast of intensity between his own regular life and small-town, USA, is both debilitating and invigorating. Here, he's a force of nature - all quick words and power strides. Sometimes, though, it helps his sanity to stay just these few days in a town that is basically a giant spa.

The Midwest chill isn't exactly smothering Southern hospitality, but its general serenity is still a treat from the hustle and bustle of Manhattan.

A series of unexpected knocks gets Darcy's attention.

He sits up halfway, eyeing his private entrance suspiciously.

The knocks come again.

"Mr. Darcy?"

He turns, surprised, at the sound coming from the door connected to the indoor hallway. He straightens himself just a little before opening the seldom-used entrance to a smiling Mrs. Collins.

"I'm very sorry to disturb you, sir."

"It's fine. Is something wrong?"

There's a comfort in Mrs. Collins's sensibility - and how she doesn't pry or snoop or peek at what he's been doing to his portion of the borrowed premises. God knows what uncomfortable observations Aunt Catherine would try to wrestle out of the situation - or, rather, _did_ use to wrestle.

"My friend who stayed here before you believes she may have left her coat in the closet. Would you be kind enough to retrieve it if you were to come across it?"

Darcy inclines his head just slightly towards the closed closet door, knowing he hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary when unpacking last night.

"What color is it?"

"Beige." Mrs. Collins smiles. "I don't believe she needs it in a hurry. I can always endorse it back to her when she visits again. I just hope it won't be in your way."

Darcy nods, still a little preoccupied with his disastrous meeting this afternoon. "I'll keep an eye out."

"Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb."

"No problem. Thank you, Mrs. Collins."

He bids the lady goodbye without another thought.

* * *

He doesn't think much of the unexpected conversation, not until the end of his stay - when he's running his habitual final check to make sure he doesn't leave anything behind.

He finds the vaguely-described item of clothing dangling off a thin wire hanger at the back of the closet, its insignificant color blending in perfectly with the closet space's neutral tones. Its complete invisibility before this point is perfectly reasonable in hindsight, since his large-framed suit jackets always crowds the quaint storage provisions. Darcy even debates with himself for a quick moment if he should take out the coat or just leave it in what seems to be its most natural habitat.

If he hasn't noticed it all this time - then it shouldn't bother whoever stays here next, should it?

There's a slight disproportion to the item, though, that catches his eye. The shoulders look well-balanced, and the sleeves appear even enough despite the obvious wear and tear.

It's where the seams run down the sides, where the coat pockets protrude, that shows a clearly heavier side to the fabric.

Is his host's friend urgently looking for an old coat - because she's left something important inside?

Darcy's brotherly instincts take over the invisible owner of the slender coat, and he reaches out to unhook it from the hanger.

Emptying the pocket contents feels more clinical than intrusive. He wants to help; he wants to make some kind of purpose out of his frustratingly purposeless visits.

And all that helpfulness finds him standing stupidly beside the bed thirty seconds later - one used candy wrapper, one crumpled Post-It note, and one well-worn Austen novel in hand.

If not for his impeccable business attire, he would feel almost sheepish.

He tosses the wrapper in the modest trash can by the desk. The Post-It note falls open when it lands on the bed, displaying the simple words of 'L, gas up first' in a barely-legible scrawl. He tosses it too.

That leaves the novel - the clearly well-loved copy of _Pride and Prejudice _\- he's still holding between his urbanised fingers.

It shouldn't surprise him, really. Austen is revered by so many ladies that her books have managed to stay popular for _two hundred _years. This book, of all her books, have inspired at least a dozen films, movies, and whatnots.

But maybe it's the nostalgia in him - the fond memories of his mother loving this very book a little more than any other book, of how she wold cry and laugh and giggle and sigh every time she read the original or any variation of it - that has him flipping through this stranger's copy.

_'To Elizabeth,' _the dedication reads - in a strong print that's decidedly more feminine and legible than the scrawl on that horrendous Post-It note. _'May you wear this one out as much as you did your last copy. Your Mr. Darcy may come yet. Love, Charlotte.'_

It doesn't take long for Darcy to know this girl isn't just any guest of the Collins family. This girl - this lady - is educated enough to love Austen, a bibliophile enough to still read hard-copy paperbacks, and sensible enough to be good friends with Charlotte Collins.

After half a week of losing rapid faith in the ability of ladies to be anything but reasonable, he honestly finds it beyond refreshing that a level-headed girl can still exist in this day and age.

So he flips without thinking to where where the bookmark is nestled, the strip of soft leather pliant under his hands.

He grins at the fact that location happens to be the unhappy dip in the story when the Netherfield party has uprooted itself to London without another word. He can practically feel the righteous anger seeping through the pages, the dents on the side of the pages hinting at genuine discontent at the fictitious heroes' abandonment.

On a whim, Darcy figures this faceless woman needed some empathy - some kindness beyond ugly notes reminding her to gas up.

He pulls out his planner, a physical one despite the rapid modernisation of every other aspect of his life - because God forbid Aunt Catherine bribe his secretary to share her calendar with him. It doesn't take long to rip out a blank page from the back.

_'To Liz,' _he figures, given the initial on the previous Post-It note and the full name in Mrs. Collins' dedication, _'Spoiler alert: They eventually do come back.'_

He pauses just for the briefest of seconds. Then he adds a small hyphen, and then, simply, _'Liam_.'

His flight leaves in two hours, so he messages Mrs. Collins through the platform that he's found her friend's coat in the closet - choosing not to divulge the new addition to the pages of the book inside the pocket of said coat. He even adds a little bit of something else, on a whim, before he can overthink it all.

There's something about this cozy space that makes him feel more benevolent - especially to anyone with good enough tastes to occupy it as often as he does.

God knows he has enough problems to deal with in every other aspect of his stupid life anyway.

* * *

_A/N: And that's how it starts :) I hope you like it so far! :)_


	4. Chapter 4

"One's inspiration needs be drawn from the unique perspectives of the subconscious human psyche. Plebeian perusals of popular art do not suffice as justifiable grounds for innovation," Lizzie spits out each word like venom, as if reading the e-mail aloud one more time would help in any way. She wants to cry; she wants to growl. She settles for an ugly snarl before shoving herself and her haphazardly-stuffed backpack into her lousy excuse of a car. At least, this time, she remembers which strap's the broken one.

Submitting work directly for DBC was the chance of lifetime. Even in the heights of her pity-parties, she's never denied that fact.

Having her artwork _accepted _as one of the final proposals is something even she admits is worth smiling about.

But did it really _have _to come with that brute of a boss?

"Bloody Mr. Darcy," she groans before her engine finally wakes up under her persistent key-turning and gas-pedal churning.

The drive to Rosings brings very few surprises. It may have taken some time - but, once reconciled, she and Charlotte never did wander far from each other's orbit. In so many ways, she's Lizzie's second Jane - another foil to her own craziness. Women who are too alike never stay friends into adulthood. It's the opposites - the geek versus the scatterbrain, the whimsical versus the sensible - who actually need and appreciate each other more in the long run.

The engine's constant lamentation doesn't let up the whole entire trip, and it takes a few strange looks from new neighbors to help Lizzie remember that not everyone knows a car can sound like a train trudging uphill.

"Lizzie!" Charlotte answers the door, wide and wise smile in place.

Lizzie offers her own grim one in response. "Hey, Char."

"Thought my big shot corporate designer would be - happier?" Charlotte ushers her in - half mother, half sister, half friend, all housewife. The door latches soothingly behind them.

Sure, there's no place like home.

But, sometimes, this luxurious corner of timeless tastes and architecture is much closer to home than her own dingy apartment ever will be. Her backpack lands on the edge of the bed, keeps its balance for two whole seconds, and slinks on to the rug.

"Your husband said anything this time?"

Charlotte shrugs. "Just the usual."

"I can pay you. They did give us a stipend for making it this far."

"And steal from your damsel-in-distress stash?" Charlotte pours them their customary tea on autopilot. The familiar purple cup of comfort beckons Lizzie to her side of the small table. The steam settles some of the chill from her inconsistent car thermostat. "How would that make us any better than your - what was it - 'snobby, entitled DBC jerk' project handler?"

Lizzie snorts. "It's not like he knows I'm a girl."

"Oh?"

"I applied under 'E. Bennet.' I think I always will." She takes a sip. "It helps to know I succeed at something because I did - and not for some cause that pushes the powers that be towards or away from female designers."

"No winning despite or because of PC."

"Exactly." Lizzie finds herself draining her cup a few seconds too fast. That little burn will hurt a day or two, at least.

For one quiet moment, the room is still. The promise of tomorrow hangs as thickly in the air as a heavy shroud of tropical humidity.

"What time's your presentation?" Charlotte starts packing up their pretty utensils, after they finish all the tea.

"Eight-thirty, I think?"

"Country hours, huh?"

Lizzie shrugs. "I've had worse."

"You run on caffeine."

"Thank goodness for the modern age."

Charlotte's laugh is hearty - always deeper than the average woman's. "Your coat is in the closet, by the way."

"You found it?"

"The guest before you did."

"Oh - I'm sorry, Char."

Her friend just shrugs. "It's fine. He didn't sound bothered."

"A 'he' - huh?"

"I don't think he's a pervert, Lizzie."

Sometimes, her friends knows her frenetic mind a little _too _well.

"He's a regular. No worries." Charlotte shrugs. "He didn't seem too bothered anyway."

"I'm not costing you any future revenue?"

"No, I promise." Charlotte smiles.

"Fine." Lizzie stands up to give her friend a goodnight hug, carefully maneuvering between all the china. "I'll get right on to unpacking."

"Don't sleep too late."

"Yes, Mom."

There's a happy benevolence in Charlotte's grin that helps alleviate even the most desperate of days.

* * *

In life, there's a shady grey area between the brightness of hope and the darkness of despair. Today, fresh off the strangest business presentation of her life, Lizzie feels herself wafting around on a lost, singular raft among the waves of these mysterious grey depths - a dot in the vastness of the ocean blue.

"Eccentricity must run in the - company," she mutters to herself before collapsing unceremoniously on the half-made bed. The full weight of her caffeine crash, abated all morning by Ms. de Bourgh's oddly personal probes into her background, starts closing around her all at once.

What was that last question again?

Try as she might, she just can't come up for _any _justification for a successful female business founder to demand that a lady designer 'explain how her unmarried state would not hinder her progress over a project of this magnitude.'

Shouldn't she be _happy _that more women are making it in the field?

And what was it with the constant references to her goddaughter?

Lizzie rolls on her side, content with ironing her coat again the next day instead. It's not as if she would need -

The pack of pages that hits her side has her sitting up quickly and scrambling for her comfort blanket. She wanted to read her usual pages last night. It was just work and nerves and uncertainty that kept her from her well-established routine. Her e-book copy has kept her company since her last visit, but there's something different about a physical book. There is always a romance in its tactile nature, a warmth in its weight - a beauty of legacy knowing that she's rediscovering her favorite story through the same medium that the very first generation of readers did two hundred years ago.

_'To Liz,  
Spoiler alert: They eventually do come back.  
-Liam'_

The note catches her off-guard.

Then it worms its way into her fragile little heart.

Suddenly, the piece of Swiss chocolate she'd magically found in her coat pocket this morning makes so much more sense.

She's not sure when she'll be back - or if this Liam guy would ever be visiting again. Charlotte did seem pretty casual about him.

And before she can overthink it, Lizzie shoves Liam's note into her backpack, reads her customary set number of pages, and reaches for her own stash of sticky notes.

_'To Liam, if all men were as attentively negligent as D and B, no wonder W stood a chance.' _Then, like him, she signs it with a simple _'Liz.'_

She sleeps a little better that night; and when she takes off the next day to await her fate with DBC yet again, she leaves the note in the book in the pocket of the coat in the closet.

* * *

_A/N: For all those wondering, Catherine de Bourgh doesn't actually appear directly in this entire story, but she is always hovering behind-the-scenes. I'm sorry there wasn't any Darcy in this chapter. I also miss him!_


	5. Chapter 5

"But it _is _an emergency, William, and any fool who tells you otherwise is undermining your power."

His aunt's words ricochet in his mind, and Darcy slams his laptop bag even more harshly than usual on the flowery bedspread. It's nice that the Collins had their wing available this weekend, even when the airlines' online booking services - and, really, every other physical sign from swamped TSA clearance to persistent threats of inclement weather - seemed to scream the stupidity of a last-minute trip to the middle of nowhere.

Who even cares about blizzard warnings this early in the year?

Darcy runs his hand roughly across his face, universally annoyed. When it comes to supposed innovation, Catherine de Bourgh gets all the credit. When it comes to actually _screening _and _choosing _and _approving_ these ridiculous new submissions, it always falls back on him - nephew, heir, lapdog extraordinaire.

A series of chimes from his phone reminds him of the inevitable passage of time, regardless of ridiculous aunts - and that there will always be more e-mails to check, more projects to go through, more campaigns to approve.

Now if only that Bennet guy would stop being so darn difficult to work with. It's not like the other applicants did anything close to the quality of what he's submitted anyway.

Drawing a strange mixture of comfort and despair from the fact that he'll be getting this quiet corner of the world to himself for just one night this time, Darcy trudges over to the closet and wrangles out a clothes hanger as roughly as he can without damaging any hinges, molding, or lights.

That's when he sees it - the telltale coat - and he contemplates for a moment if this is the universe's way of telling him how silly his last attempt at connecting with a stranger was.

But, even tired, William Darcy can have an impeccable spatial memory.

And he knows the book had been in the _other _pocket when he had been last responsible for it.

He's happy he's alone enough to grab and flip through the worn Austen pages with minimal regard over how manly or unmanly he looks.

The reply isn't much, but it's a reply - and her handwriting is feminine and urban and youthful but strong.

And, maybe because he is unduly drawn to anything remotely feminine in the traditional sense right now, he grabs a sheet of the actual stationary in the Collins's guest desk instead of an everyday sticky note.

_Dear Liz,_

_W is, indubitably, the most blue-blooded villain of the story. But, if anything, Ms. Austen is a genius for acknowledging that there are villains of various kinds in life._

_There is the villain of the past - the shadows of the pressures of generations. There is the villain of authority, an employer or debtor thirsty for the power in his or her sway. There is the villain who leaves behind broken hearts, broken trusts, or broken lives._

He pauses, taking just a few seconds to clear his brain.

_It takes a mind of great perception to decipher which villains lie in wait in our own journeys._

_May you have better illumination than I in uncovering yours before they spring upon you._

_Truly,  
Liam_

He doesn't even wince when he leaves the book in the other coat pocket when he leaves the next day, his boarding pass glaring impatiently from his idle phone screen.

* * *

"I got it, Char, I got it!"

She feels a little guilty for slamming the door just a tad too hard behind her, but at least Charlotte's smile implies more empathetic joy than offense.

Lizzie grabs her friend and _almost _starts whirling her around the cozy confines of her borrowed home. She settles for a hug instead.

"It's my big break, and it's all thanks to you." Lizzie knows she's beaming, and she's certain it's justified. "We're signing the contract tomorrow - and it's finally going to be _real_."

Charlotte smiles the way she does - half benevolent, half motherly, and all sincerity. "I take it you don't need to rant over tea today?"

Lizzie smirks before she lets her lone backpack strap slide off her shoulder and land all her earthly goods upon the bed. "I'm just happy you have the place available."

Charlotte shrugs. "I've had even closer turnovers."

"As loving as a mother bear, efficient as a robot."

"You do toe the line between love and insult, dear."

Lizzie grins, turns, and dives heartily for the laid-out tea spread. It's just like Charlotte to have the vintage teacups, every item as different as can be from the cracked novelty mugs stocked in her own crooked cupboards.

"To friendship and success." Lizzie toasts first, heart as high on a cloud as can be.

"To perseverance and talent."

In a world where perfect friends can share some perfect tea on a perfect autumn afternoon, even the highest mountain feels surmountable.

They talk of everything and nothing. They talk of Charlotte's parents and Lizzie's sisters. They talk of a handful of interesting guests since Lizzie's last stay. They talk of Billy Collins's latest product, and they talk of Lizzie's incorrigible boss.

"Is he really that impossible?" Charlotte prods gently, pouring away the last drops from their teacup.

Lizzie sighs, more tea than common sense in her veins. At least Charlotte chose a calming blend today.

"It's not that his standards are _impossible_."

"I see."

"It's just - you know how you work so hard for something - and you _know _you've already done your best - but, still, there's a hovering jerk out there trying to tell you that it's not enough, that there's more to be done, more to be tweaked, more to be altered." Lizzie's eyes sting at the latest subversive insults in the e-mail she received that morning, right before her long and winding drive. "And the doubts you thought you've overcome for years come creeping back in - or shouting in your ears."

Charlotte's hand is patting hers within a few seconds. Lizzie smiles, though a little bitterly.

"But I really shouldn't be complaining - should I?"

"You have every right, Lizzie."

"I'm luckier than most." Lizzie shrugs. She downs the rest of her cup, the fluid now mostly-cold. "I have a marketable talent, and I have friends and family who are always there for me. I managed to make rent this month, and if this pushes through - I'll get a stipend for New York. New York, as in _New York_, New York. Can you imagine, Char?"

The gentle sparkle in her friend's eyes shows support, if not full understanding.

Their dreams have always been rather different.

"I'm guessing you'll have money for a new coat then?"

Lizzie feels her blush, even if it's just a gradual sort of warming.

She tries not to stutter. "I'm sorry for forgetting it again."

"Mm hmm."

"I hope your guests haven't complained?"

"No." Charlotte has a thoughtful look about her, before it's gone in a single breath. "Have a good stay, Lizzie."

For once, she's thankful for the impending privacy. "I'll pay you guys back, Char."

"We'll see."

It takes a few lingering jokes before the domestic duties of cooking, cleaning, and general deference call Charlotte away.

And that's when Lizzie discreetly closes the door, snaps the lock, walks leisurely across the room, and _attacks _the closet.

She finds the book on the other pocket, a clear indication of some kind of human interference, and shuffles quickly for what has apparently grown beyond a note.

There's a secret delight in the innocence of it all - like getting away with passing innocuous notes right in front of the teacher, like the guilty pleasure of reading a period romance scene one too many times in the dark of the night. The 'letter' is the farthest thing from romantic. It is, if anything, almost philosophical.

But a small part of her swoons nonetheless.

_Dear Liam,_

_Thank goodness life gives second chances - doesn't it? Any story that doesn't is too cruel to print, too hopeless to read. Fiction exists to reflect the state of our hearts to us. We need our heroes to be real enough to be relatable - our villains tangible enough to strike genuine dread and frustration inside of us._

_Only where realism meets romanticism can there be hope: hope for a twist in the narrative, hope for that chance second meeting, hope that first impressions can be wrong and can be changed._

_Where we stand at the moment gives us insight for the day._

_One can only hope for equal or better insight for tomorrow._

_May your demons be content to live in the shadows and not in your face. And if they insist upon the latter, may your Wickhams, Catherines, and Carolines leave loopholes in their logic sooner rather than later._

_The only thing more annoying than villains are villains who appear to be right._

_Truly,  
Liz_

She leaves the next after tomorrow, still sans her beige coat, but now armed with a big fat check and instructions to report to New York next week.

* * *

_A/N: I hope it was nice to have snippets of the two of them, even if they are still technically apart for now!_


	6. Chapter 6

He's not a particularly avid fan of Miss Austen's work, but he knows he's read _Pride and Prejudice _(and watched its various adaptations) a high number of times for the average modern straight man. But, somehow, this time, it feels a little different.

Is it the fact that class differences have recently managed to stare him right in the face? Is it the shock of that moment last week when 'E. Bennet,' the designer DBC finally chose, showed up at his New York office in a skirt suit, brunette curls, and high heels?

Darcy slips into the limited space between desk and chair, Liz's book between his hands.

A pair of fine eyes, an impertinent spirit, an indomitable stride in what's clearly an unbranded outfit corresponding way too much to a petticoat six inches deep in mud - it all sounds so familiar, almost achingly so. He finds himself rereading, retracing - wondering where exactly in the book someone Darcy had so clearly disdained became a love interest to him.

Tomorrow morning, he'll face his own Aunt Catherine yet again. Her demands have been increasing as her health deteriorates. More and more personal, prying questions accompany her business ones now.

But those are tomorrow's battles.

Today, still smelling of stuffy airplane carpet, Darcy's on a hunt for something else.

For someone who started the entire conversation on the realism in Miss Austen's book, he suddenly finds the assumption too hasty.

For the vast majority of his reading days, he's focused on _Pride and Prejudice _as satire. It's subversive and witty, picturesque yet almost gritty in a daring way for its time. He knows that ladies tend to love it as a romance, despite what can only be considered a highly unromantic meet cute.

So why does he find himself following the more relational threads this time? What is he trying to prove - or not prove - to himself?

He doesn't feel like he's found his answer, but the letter he leaves this time - conspicuously tucked _beside _rather than _inside _the book in the coat in the closet - takes on an entirely different view.

_Dear Liz,_

_When it comes to invisible demons, perhaps the hardest ones to battle are our own. For all intents and purposes, the Wickhams, Catherines, and Carolines are the true villains of the book. They aim to hurt, to divide, to conquer._

_But maybe our hero and heroine's demons were as much themselves as they were others. What if Miss Elizabeth had been less likely to nurse a grudge? What if Mrs. Bennet had acted with more sense? One can argue that for the entire first half of the book, the master of Pemberley is the person portrayed to be the true villain - but history has proven that ladies find him one of the most dashing heroes in all of English literature._

_Surely, he couldn't have done things too wrong to be still redeemable in the eyes of women everywhere. He was right, but appeared wrong._

_What if the more pesky people in one's real life were just as right - appearing just as wrong?_

_You claim that hope in fiction leaves room for hope in reality._

_I wonder how much I hope that statement to be true._

_Yours,  
__Liam_

* * *

_Dear Liam,_

_Come on, you have to admit Fitzwilliam Darcy was a villain the entire first half of the book! He belittled Elizabeth, insulted her, and low-key stalked her throughout the Kent arc. To take his side is to say that it was okay for him to act creepy and self-entitled just because he was acting out of genuine romantic interest._

_I know that girls around the world - including yours truly - have repeatedly enshrined his character as the ultimate, cross-generational dreamboat. But it's not just because he suddenly explained his motives. It's because he changed._

Elizabeth pauses, hands trembling just that much more than usual when she's passionately scribbling her thoughts. It's taken her two weeks to get to this latest letter - two weeks of dealing with her chauvinistic, dense, and arrogant new boss. No amount of speed impresses him. No degree of assertiveness manages to make him even _consider _someone else's perspective.

Thank goodness for the reprieves of her quieter Rosings visits.

Thank goodness for faceless pen pals who get her so much more than real-life people ever seem able to.

_A man's value isn't inherent. Yes, the young master of Pemberley was handsome, rich, and broodingly delicious._

_But he doesn't get to be considered a hero because he's shown to be right all along._

_He is a hero because he was wrong, and he did something about it._

_In that sense, I have my fingers and toes all crossed for Miss Austen to have gotten human nature right._

_Regards,  
__Liz_

* * *

_Dear Liz,_

_Perhaps I do owe your views a certain degree of consideration._

_While it is still my belief that both parties' prejudices contributed to the failure of the first Hunsford proposal, you have managed to challenge that it was not simple vindication that led to the subsequent Longbourn proposal succeeding. In fiction, as with life, good intentions may suffice as poor excuses for ill manners. What feels justifiable words to one may qualify as outright incriminating in the light of another person's perspective. To that, I must acquiesce._

E. Bennet - all fire and passion - has haunted him for days. Darcy runs his hands over his tired eyes. Aunt Catherine's calls for his personal presence have increased in frequency ever since her fall down half a flight of stairs. The lady appears in robust health - but is resolutely certain she is moments away from cardiac arrest.

And what can he do but to humor her?

And if knowing yet another handwritten letter is going to be in the pocket of the coat in the closet motivates him just a little to take that ghastly roundtrip to Rosings, he doesn't tell a single soul.

It's an isolated part of life - away from work, away from Manhattan - away from brunette locks that sway and glisten in fascinating ways whenever their owner walks up and down the hallway right outside his glass-walled office.

It's an escape that vindicates his spirit - convinces him that he's drawn to women of content and thought - and not just a pair of mascaraed fine eyes.

And whenever he _does _feel a tiny, inconsequential pang of guilt over his body's visceral reactions to E. Bennet crossing her legs in her pencil skirts or readjusting her hair on her square yet feminine shoulders - he files the moment away and channels it into the next letter he writes to Liz.

Sometimes, those moments end up channeling a little more than just objective thought or observations.

He just hopes Liz doesn't mind.

_I've found myself facing challenges of late - personal prejudices, tests of character. Faces long estranged drift even further away; faces fresh and new wreck havoc; faces one has never expected to see often evolve into mainstays of one's daily life. The changes have been frankly overwhelming._

_Your belief that a man may be redeemed by change, rather than vindication, is a fascinating concept to unpack. I live alone, and I operate alone. Society's mirrors hardly matter to me._

_But is it that selfsame lack of mirrors in my own life preventing me from understanding what exactly I must change to adapt to life's shifting circumstances?_

_There is much to inspect and much to uncover._

_Yours,  
Liam._

* * *

Sometimes, Elizabeth lets herself daydream.

What does her mysterious pen pal look like? What kind of 21st-century mystery man reads Austen, visits Rosings on a regular basis, has obviously impeccable taste in style and lodging, _and_ communicates in perfect cursive writing?

There are days her dreams conjure a perfect prince charming - maybe someone with William Darcy's face and physique but none of the block-headedness. There are other days when she begrudgingly accepts that no one can win the lottery by that much - and that she's indubitably telling a faceless serial killer way too much about her inner thoughts and feelings.

The optimist in her really, _really _wants the former.

Reality screams the latter.

Experience tells her that people who sound amazing seldom look quite as amazing as one would hope. Turning to the back cover of a favorite novel - or even just scrolling down that Kindle book's product page - almost always means inevitable disappointment over the self-inflicted expectation that makers of memorable, unrealistically-hot characters must somehow look just as hot as the creatures they've concocted.

It's like a living meme, sometimes.

To the left, there is the character. To the right, there is the author.

Thank God Austen's portraits never look half bad.

She should be so proud.

_Dear Liam,_

_I must admit I seldom take into account the vindication involved in Mr. D & E's courtship. It's not that I'm putting all the blame on the guy. There was a lot of change necessary to put our lovers together, and that change had to come from both parties for anything to actually happen. You sound so introspective and sad in your latest letter that I really can't help feeling guilty for contributing in any way to that mood. Austen lovers are sensitive souls, and there is definitely nothing to be ashamed of in that!_

_I guess I need to admit that in life, just like in books, I do try to pretend there's never anything wrong with me. Growing up, I had two polar opposites when it came to female role models. My beloved grandmother, before she died, was textbook housewife. Apple pie could practically be her middle name. She cooked, she cleaned, she mended and sewed and gardened like a pro. My grandfather was military, and Granny B never doubted - for a moment - that her role was to keep their home base secure. In her world, any troubles in life were almost always the girl's fault._

_Then there was my other grandmother - outspoken feminist, activist, and hater of all mankind. She never made a secret of how unremarkable a woman who only lived for her family was. I admire her strength, but I suppose she did browbeat her husband a bit too much. In her world, the woman was always right, and it's our right to make men grovel._

_But even I have to admit it's a blessing our Derbyshire hero never groveled too much._

_I guess there's a reason we get two pairs of grandparents each._

_Regards,  
Liz_

And just like that, somehow, their letters turn personal.

And, somehow, Elizabeth gets to keep fighting her professional fight - keep shattering glass ceilings and staking her claim in the big city like no one in her family was ever able to before. Then when she feels just a little tired, just a little more girl than woman - she counts down the days until her next Rosings visit - and the next pseudo-love-letter she'll get to curl up and read.

* * *

_A/N: This chapter was one of the hardest ones to write, but it was also one of the most important in the development of their relationship. The discovery of E. Bennet being a woman was not the most dramatic, I know, but I hope the portrayal of Darcy's obvious office crush is fun enough to keep us going! _


	7. Chapter 7

"How often does he stay here?" She slips the question in as casually as she can manage - bookended by sips of tea.

"Who does?" Charlotte replies.

Elizabeth swallows the hot fluid just a tad too fast.

Of course, the reaction makes sense.

It's not as if anyone else in the universe knows of their covert correspondence - or of her seemingly growing obsession with her faceless pen pal.

"Your other - regulars," Elizabeth fends. She refills her cup, avoiding eye contact with the most observant housewife in the Midwest. "I don't want to, you know, be in the way of your actually turning a profit on this wing."

When she peeks up, Charlotte has _the look_. It's a look that Elizabeth is pretty sure will come in handy for raising any potential future offspring. It's as if her friend knows what's in her mind - and is wavering between indulging her and exposing her true intentions.

"Not a lot of tourists come by Rosings." Charlotte seems to have chosen indulgence.

Elizabeth smiles grimly, hoping she's shielding her inexplicable guilt a little better. This is not a childhood crush, and Charlotte isn't her mom.

_The solace of your company, proffered through this most classic of avenues, yields a rare and precious empathy that the hustle and bustle of life tend so often to overlook as a basic human need._

The words from his latest letter stay in her head - keeping her on her toes just as much as they soothe her mind and heart. At her current rate of visits, she gets his replies on average once every two to six weeks.

It's unsettling how long those six-week stretches can feel.

But, hey, at least she has tea - and Charlotte - and the secret thrills of finding a letter in her coat pocket each and every visit.

Life isn't perfect.

But Liam sure is.

* * *

"You use a _physical _calendar?" Elizabeth laughs, one visit later. The evidence is right in front of her - a big grid with dates and colorful markers all over it. It doesn't take long for her designer eyes to spot that pink crosses indicate her own stays in the Collins guest wing. "Doesn't Airbnb give you guys a digital version?"

"They do." Charlotte remains unfazed. She's always unfazed. Maybe that's why the heartland of Ohio doesn't faze her either. Contrary to city perception, living in small-town USA takes resilience of an entirely different kind. "I just like to keep things tactile."

"And kill a few more trees."

"Lizzie." _Now,_ Charlotte sounds unamused. And as if for dramatic effect, the telltale sounds of dishes being washed stop completely - leaving just the low, thrumming hum of running water. "A few months in New York and now you're _tree-hugging _me?"

"Just kidding." Elizabeth laughs it off. She waits until the clinking and clanging of family china resumes to reach out for the tempting calendar on the wall.

If pink indicates her visits, then another color must indicate Liam's. She flips back a few months and notes the dark green markers that always manage to appear for a few days between her own drop-ins. Her heart skips just a little when she traces the markings all back to when he must have written her that very first letter.

She's never been more thankful for having forgotten her coat, or her book.

"Lizzie, that's confidential." Matronly Charlotte is back, with eyes on the back of her head.

Elizabeth lets go of the glossy pages she's since managed to accumulate between her fingers.

"I'm not looking."

"Sure, Lizzie, sure."

It's too bad Charlotte got to her before she could peek _ahead_.

Maybe she can drop by intentionally early one of these visits? Maybe she'll catch him leaving just as she arrives - or vice versa?

Every time she comes back from a long-winded meeting with Catherine de Bourgh - every time she squeezes into her minuscule Manhattan bedroom after yet another long, long day of tirades by her jerk of a boss - she thinks of Liam.

Every time she rediscovers a new twist in the _Pride and Prejudice _saga - or every time a plot twist happens in her _own _life - she thinks of Liam.

Is it really so bad for her to want to meet him in person?

He lives in her fantasies already - sometimes as a brooding bad boy but mostly as a sensitive, handsome, shy young man. Their letters don't give a lot of personal detail, and it's almost as if she knows his soul before she's met his face.

Is it really so bad to want to have some info that will help her pick out her invisible best friend out of a line up?

She's tried to do her own share of sleuthing, but Liam clearly doesn't go by 'Liam' on Airbnb - and the male reviewers on Charlotte's place all have zoomed-out shots that mostly obscure the face.

"You do receive personal info on all your guests, right?" Elizabeth asks before really thinking about why she's asking.

"Back off my guests, Lizzie."

"Fine, Charlotte, fine."

* * *

_If I had but half of our favorite heroine's perception, perhaps I would find myself only half as puzzled by the people that surround me. There are days when an 'impertinent, headstrong girl' wins every favor in our society. There are days when I wish I had the older Miss Bennet's serenity, trust, and kindness. Even in heartbreak, she never stirred up trouble. What I would give at times to have a temperament that sweet!_

Darcy's thumb traces the last paragraph of Liz's latest letter. He used to leave each of her letters home - packed away safely in the box he's dedicated to them.

But this latest letter, and the timing of its arrival, has him folding it constantly to tuck into his inside pocket - un-platonically near his heart - only to retrieve it for another perusal a couple of hours later.

It's not that he's in love in any sort of way with this faceless woman. Yes, he's memorized the loops of her handwriting and the cadence of her words. Yes, his heart rate picks up just that much more every time he sees her signature stationery peeking out of her now-never-used coat jacket.

But he's not in love. He doesn't live in olden times of arranged marriages or strained, chaperoned courtships. No one falls in love with someone they've never even seen. No one can truly know another person just through a dozen handwritten, personal letters exploring one's deepest thoughts.

He knows his heart, as carefully guarded as his legacy and bank account, shouldn't be swayed by a few pretty words.

But he knows, even more, than his heart _really _shouldn't be taken in by a flirtatious sway of the hips or a calculated hair flip in the middle of a work proposal. It shouldn't be affected by a woman who is running out of Manhattan-appropriate work clothes so quickly that she's been wearing the same outfit every other day - and pretending people don't notice.

It really, _really _shouldn't be engaged by a pair of challenging, blue-grey eyes - always challenging his every comment on her every latest design.

E. Bennet is from the wrong side of the tracks - the beneficiary, the scholarship kid. William Darcy is nothing but tradition and legacy.

And he would much rather admit he's smitten by an unknown, barely-named, Middle-American intellectual than an impertinent, smarty-pants, glorified intern his aunt has managed to pluck off the streets for good press.

"Bennet here to see you, sir," his secretary announces - because one apparently can't even _think _of the devil without him showing up.

"Let her in," Darcy grumbles, quickly folding and concealing the letter in his hand.

As always, Ms. Bennet marches in without preamble, without respect for propriety or rank. She deposits herself on the table across his desk, eyes already fiery.

"Yes?" Darcy growls. It's not a sexual growl - never a sexual growl.

"You changed my work without permission - again."

"Considering our positions in DBC, Ms. Bennet, I would say it's almost ludicrous to consider _my _having to ask any sort of permission from _you_."

She tips her chin upward - that annoying, bewitching habit. "I'm an artist. You can't just change my work."

"I've _purchased _your work - by way of a very generous compensation."

"Ha," she scoffs. "Your definition of generous is highly debatable, sir."

"Is it?"

"Do you even _know _what DBC is paying me?"

He wishes he has a good answer - or a real one.

Even now, he's looking at her lips - at her eyes - at her hair.

She's tricking him to engage with her through her feminine wiles.

Darcy swallows. "Is this a matter you should perhaps take up with HR?"

She glares at him. She does that, rather often.

"Fine," she spits. "Maybe I should hire an attorney while I'm at it."

"Perhaps you should."

His heart is still pounding wildly when she wheezes her way out of his office two minutes later.

This cannot be.

This cannot do.

He has to do _something_ about it.

What would Liz say?

* * *

_A/N: Poor Darcy trapped between his physical and emotional attachments! :D Am I evil for enjoying his awkwardness? I hope you enjoyed this chapter!_


	8. Chapter 8

Only one person in the world - in the _universe, _really - has the kind of special talent to make an already-crappy week that many times more crappy. It's the kind of honorable title that she wishes could go to William Darcy, jerk-boss extraordinaire.

It is a title, unfortunately, that is currently held by Elizabeth's mother - who's maintained her throne through war after war, battle after battle, generation after generation - impossible to usurp or undermine in any conceivable way.

"Men only want one thing, darling, you _must _know that," her mother chides over speaker phone, her voice scratchy thanks to poor reception and poor phone speakers. As it turns out, a big fat check isn't really all that big or fat when it has to cover for housing in New York City. "You must win him over with charm and sweetness, as your sister never fails to do."

Elizabeth stuffs another sweater into her backpack. It's not likely that she'll need it. There's nothing that dictates her _having_ to stay overnight anywhere anytime soon - but, after the fiasco of a meeting yesterday, she just might have to go somewhere just to process it all.

"I didn't ask for your advice on my boss, Mom."

"Nonsense, children _always _need their mothers' advice."

She can practically _hear _her mother's eyelashes dancing up and down in glee.

"I just called to see if I can come over for the weekend."

"It's only Friday morning. Don't you have any _plans_, darling?"

"If I did, I wouldn't have called - would I?" Elizabeth shucked her last two pairs of clean underwear between the folds of the aforementioned sweater.

"And you don't have a _boyfriend_'s place where you can crash?"

"Mom, for the last time, I don't have a boyfriend."

"And now you see what our problem is, dear. Only wealthy women can afford not to have a man."

"Mom!"

"And with your car and basic possessions practically _screaming _poverty, you _have _to lower your standards sometime."

"I don't have a boyfriend because I haven't been looking, okay?" She tries not to cry at the fact that, as of yesterday night, even her car has given up on her. The tow truck driver didn't even give her an option between junk yard or repair shop. It was already a given.

Her mom doesn't have to know that.

"And you expect the perfect man to suddenly just coming looking for _you_?"

Elizabeth groans louder than her squeaky mattress when she plops on it. It's not her mom's place to know - but she _has _found the perfect man who, in his own serendipitous way, _has _just come looking for her.

She just doesn't know his face, or his full name, or any other facts about him beyond his thoughtful, wise personality.

"Lizzy, do you hear me? Is your phone even working? Your sister gets better reception than this when she's in Ghana."

"Yes, Mom. No worries." Elizabeth sighs. "I won't bother you this weekend."

She hangs up without so much as another word on the state of her car, her singleness, or her general discontent. It's Friday morning - one more day to liberation. She'll just put together the most professional outfit she can create from the scarce contents of her wardrobe, put on a proud smile, and finish up her DBC proposal. If all goes well, they'll deem her product acceptable enough to make things easier for her on her two remaining projects.

It's cold and wet both outside and inside her clothes by the time she, having braved Manhattan rush hour, arrives at her small, contractor's desk on the thirty-second floor.

And when the paper inside the envelope on her desk reads "TERMINATION OF CONTRACT" in bold, unyielding letters, Lizzie crumples it in her hand, fishes out her phone, and crashes her life savings on the quickest flight to Rosings.

Here's hoping Charlotte will be a better listener than her mom.

* * *

_To battle with one's own heart is the worst of all life's conflicts. There is no true victory. There is no true defeat. At best, it is a choice between two divergent, equally fascinating paths. At worst, it is a choice between regrets._

A knock surprises him, and Darcy lifts his eyes off his half-written letter just for a second. It's unlike Mrs. Collins to interrupt her guests. He's stayed here enough to know that much.

A second, more urgent knock follows. Darcy begrudgingly - and slightly curiously - leaves the desk to check on the door that connects this wing to the main house. The lock yields easily under his fingers. The empty hallway greets him.

In one of the less-used recesses of his mind, the image of a flushed Ms. Bennet appears - sporting an unbuttoned dress suit - charming him with a 'come hither' look in her eyes. He shakes his head violently. He's escaped here last night through a series of horrifically non-sequential connecting flights, to the middle of nowhere - arriving in the wee hours of the morning - just to get away from his overwhelming infatuation, because firing her just didn't seem enough.

He can't afford to still be distracted now.

Darcy slides the door close and strides back towards his letter.

Liz will calm him. Liz will understand. The faceless, body-less woman who knows more about him at this point than anyone in his life is his only chance at resolving this inexplicable attraction he's experiencing for an employee far beneath his station in life.

The only balm for unnerving physical allure is the sweet serenity of a better woman's brains, perception, and wisdom.

The knocking starts again. This time, it comes with a whimper. "Charlotte? Are you there?"

It's a woman's voice - and it's not Mrs. Collins.

The knocking turns frantic. "It's sort of snowing here - just a bit. And the Uber dropped me off on this side. Could you let me in? Talk later?"

The woman sounds afraid - genuinely afraid.

One peek through the sheer curtains shows Darcy that it _is _snowing - and fast growing dark.

"Char?"

He follows the voice to the _other _door - the one private exit for his wing of the house. He takes the handle carefully, big city distrust still in his veins.

And he opens the door to the last sight he's ever, ever expected to see.

"Ms. Bennet?"

"Mr. - Darcy."

They stare each other down - as the cosmos tries to find its footing.

"What are you - "

"Why are you - "

"You're _here_."

"I'm here - yes. But what are _you_ \- "

"Why would you - "

"What is going - "

A harsh breeze has her shivering - and Darcy steps aside to let her in.

She's still in work clothes - in a very soaked version of work clothes. He feels a pang of guilt for having fantasized to ripping off those selfsame clothes at some point. They're clearly some of the only clothes she has.

"Thanks," she mutters, despite sounding very unthankful.

He closes the door behind her.

And it's just them - in a room that is as stifling as it is cozy.

The woman he's literally run away from - is somehow standing in front of him in his life's greatest, grandest act of irony yet.

"What are you doing here?" She asks first.

Darcy frowns. It's clearly _he_ who has the reservation.

"I'm staying here," he replies, hands finding his pockets. "I stay here every time I have to visit my aunt."

"With Charlotte?" She looks confused. She seldom looks confused.

"Charlotte is - Mrs. Collins - right." He nods his head, all to himself.

"You know her."

"She's my - host."

Their eyes meet. The bewilderment starts to give way to some kind of strange understanding.

"You stay here - often?" She asks. He lets her interrogate him, for some reason.

"Rather often."

This time, she doesn't reply.

He feels his shoulders tensing. Something is up - something _very bad _is up.

"Do you stay here often?" It's his turn to ask.

"Yes - rather often."

As if on cue, both their eyes trail off each other and towards the currently-open closet. The beige coat that was inside is now outside, hanging off the back of the white wooden chair, exactly where he put it two hours ago. The copy of _Pride and Prejudice _is still stuffed in its pocket. The latest letter from his pen pal lies on the desk. His half-composed reply lies beside it.

"Oh my goodness."

"Oh, bloody hell."

They turn to each other - a new fire between them - horror, disbelief, anger.

They declare it at the same, desperate moment.

"You're Liam."

"You're Liz."

* * *

_A/N: Phew! That was hard to write! They'll have a couple of chapters to unravel this mess. And, yes, I agree. Darcy is totally unprofessional and wrong to fire someone he finds himself inappropriately attracted to. It's his Hunsford!_


	9. Chapter 9

"You're Liam."

"You're Liz."

The way their words overlap is just a tiny reflection of the one million layers of emotions overwhelming her at the moment. He's William Darcy - jerk boss extraordinaire - the source of all her strife and conflict for the past six months.

Yet, at the same time, he's Liam - confidante and pen pal and friend - the faceless man she has somehow managed to grow closer to with every passing handwritten letter.

What kind of colossal joke is this?

As if on cue, loud thunder crashes outside the Collins' suburb. Lightning follows, illuminating the windows. The precipitation that got him to finally open the door for her has managed to fully trap her inside now.

She's trapped - body and soul - with William Darcy.

Life _does _have the oddest sense of humor, sometimes.

He's staring at her - still staring at her. He hasn't stopped staring from the moment they met each other's eyes. The confusion from earlier in their encounter is burning now, under some kind of fizzing energy of injustice between them.

Then, in dramatic fashion, she sneezes.

"Bless you," he says quickly, before offering her a seat and a cup of hot water. His actions are so ridiculously _normal_ that she wants to laugh and cry all at the same time.

Technically, this is her friend's home. She has every right to tell him to stop acting like he owns the place.

Technically, he paid to rent this room. He has every right to function as its master for now.

It's getting cold - in more ways than one - so she takes the proffered seat and lets him serve her that cup of very welcome warm water. Their fingertips nearly skim each other when he passes the painted teacup to her. She's happy they don't actually touch.

He sits on the bed, just a few feet away. Outside the house, the freak storm rages on.

They don't speak, not for another ten whole minutes. There's too much to feel and realize. There's too much to lament and grind. A thousand discussions on ethics and irony nearly spring on her tongue; a thousand angry accusations dampen any wit she may possess.

"You fired me," came her first words after their life-altering mutual revelation. She lifts her head to look at him, straight in the eye. She's not the type to cower at intimidation.

"I terminated our contract - yes."

She didn't expect the simple admission.

"Why?" It's hard to keep her voice level. She clenches her teacup just that much more tightly.

He just looks at her for half a minute - his eyes churning with a strange mixture of sorrow and vindication. He's handsome - she has to admit. He's handsome in his suits and suave office trappings. He's handsome dressed down and brooding.

Her mysterious pen pal has been a looker all along.

It's just really, _really _annoying that he had to be _this_ looker.

"I think you know why," he answers.

"Excuse me?"

"You cannot have been oblivious as to the reason."

"Have I been doing my job poorly? Have my submissions really been _that bad_ as to deserve a thoughtless and abrupt dismissal?" Her voice is rising now. She hopes the cup doesn't crack from the harsh way she plops it on the desk.

"It's not about your work."

"Oh - it's not now, is it?" She jumps to her feet. She crosses her arms. "And what other reason could there possibly be to justify this?"

"You have been a - gainful employee."

"Not really helping, _Liam_."

He flinches, and she can tell that he's also struggling with the sudden combination of their double personas.

At least, if she's suffering - he's suffering too.

He closes his eyes for two seconds before opening them again.

His voice is infuriatingly level when he says, "I terminated our contract over your unprofessional behavior."

* * *

"_Unprofessional behavior_!"

All his life, William Darcy has been the one doing the yelling. He holds himself back against his parents, against Aunt Catherine, and against the board. He permits himself to be harsh only with employees and people over whom he has authority.

It's the first time an employee has ever chosen to be this blatantly enraged with him.

He sets his jaw. "I would rather not elaborate."

"Oh, because there's _nothing _to elaborate? Despite your every attempt to be demanding, moody, unreadable, and rude, I have been _nothing_ but professional."

"Or so you say."

"How could you - what do you even - " She flings herself off the chair and begins pacing in the limited space between them.

Even now, she intoxicates him. Her fire and passion fill her entire being. She's gesticulating dramatically in her irascibility - and he drinks in her movements as if they were a slow, seductive dance. Now, knowing what he knows - grappling with the fact that she's as fascinating to him in the mind as she is in the flesh - she's turned from an unhealthy infatuation and wistful daydream into an unattainable goddess that he _has _to possess.

And the thought unnerves him - so very much.

"You cannot deny that you have been using your personal - _charms_ to influence the leadership at DBC," he mutters, arms crossed, two minutes later.

"Excuse me?" Her hands are planted on her hips when she whips around to face him.

"You do not care for the future of the company. You are merely using it as a stepping stone."

"It's the corporate world. When do we _need_ to care of the future of the company we work for? Isn't it enough that I do my job competently?"

"Instead of submitting your best work, you choose to offer subpar products that you may have the opportunity to visit our offices regularly to receive correction from your superiors. By doing so, you waste their time and earn special attention despite not having done your part properly."

"Did you seriously just accuse me of _wanting _to visit your dumb office!" She's screaming now. Darcy swallows.

It couldn't have been an accident. No contractor visits head offices that often unless he or she _chooses_ to.

"Why else would you - "

An urgent series of knocks interrupts him.

"Mr. Darcy, is everything alright?" Mrs. Collins sounds firm even through a closed and locked door.

It takes a few seconds for Darcy to sigh. Then he feels Ms. Bennet sigh too. On the other side of their suburban shelter, the storm rages on. Within the confines of this room, their equally turbulent hurricane - of the social and emotional kind - persists.

"Yes," they both bark.

There's a short pause. Of all the times Darcy's rented this space, it's the first time he's had a visitor of any kind.

He's lucky Mrs. Collins lets it go.

"Billy and I are here if anything comes up," his sensible landlady for the week replies.

"Thank you, Mrs. Collins."

It takes another minute before he hears retreating footsteps followed by the relieving sound of a closing door on the other side of the hallway.

He sighs again.

Both occupants of the room are heaving heavily. The escalating noises of increasing wind against the window assures him that he still has a very, _very_ long night ahead.

"Ms. Bennet," he starts.

"Lizzie," she replies, to his surprise. She shuffles a little, still standing in the middle of the room. "Call me Lizzie."

She's a woman with a thousand names - and personalities, it seems.

"No one calls me Ms. Bennet here," she adds, awkwardly meeting his eye before securing her gaze back on the floor.

He nods. "Lizzie - you - you must understand where I am coming from."

"I don't."

Darcy closes his eyes briefly. She is incorrigible.

"It's not like I _tried_ to get you to keep correcting me. No one in their right mind would do that. I can't imagine you would even think that." She laughs - scoffs, really.

Darcy tries to mask yet another sigh. "You did not enjoy working in our Manhattan office?"

"I - well, it's - I - " Ms. Bennet - Lizzie - _Liz_ takes a moment to formulate her reply. He watches her. "It's an honor to get to contribute to DBC, of course."

"Of course."

"But, sometimes, the young urban professional life just - isn't all it's made up to be." She's softened significantly in the last few minutes. There's discontent - but less anger. It takes him observing her in a multifaceted way - as _both _Ms. Bennet and Liz - to realize she's not just an upstart flirting with the boss.

"Yes," Darcy finds himself agreeing, "it really isn't."

* * *

It's one in the morning when they finally both stop shouting.

It's two in the morning when they both start breathing normally enough to not sound like a couple of heavy industrial machines.

It's almost three in the morning when she finally admits her feet hurt - and picks her way to sit down on the sole white wooden chair, a few mere feet from where he's planted on the bed.

"Water?" He offers, his own voice cracked.

She shakes her head.

He falls silent again as the weight of their hundreds and thousands of words settle in around them like a dense, stifling fog.

It's been a most - revealing conversation.

The toxicity of DBC's work environment was the first thing they'd agreed upon - and it was a slippery slope from that point on.

It was almost as if underneath the severity of Mr. William Darcy, VP of operations, he was just Liam all along.

It didn't take much prodding for him to churn out frustration after frustration about his aunt, his family, and his company. He was surprisingly open about how little he cared about DBC - and how much he did about innovation and duty.

Slowly, somehow, over the span of a few hours, two people she's known in vastly different ways are meeting in the middle - to disastrous results.

Because since when has he looked this handsome - all tousled hair and inviting lips and broad shoulders? Since when has his voice drawn her to want to hug him rather than repel her a mile away? There are very few things in the world more captivating than rich, attractive, intelligent men who seem to have it all suddenly emerging with a wounded, vulnerable side.

And she _wants _to be that person to heal him, to fill the void in his life. _That's _the scariest part of all.

Lizzie clears her throat and shakes her head. "Thanks for sharing - all that."

Mr. Darcy - her Liam - grunts in response.

"Thank you, too," he adds, three seconds later.

She nods lowly.

She has been rather - forthcoming too, she supposes.

She hadn't taken kindly to his accusations that she had been _trying _to get his attention - and her subsequent listing of every single reason why she _wouldn't ever _want to voluntarily spend time with his stupid face hadn't exactly minced words either. She called him a coward, a narcissist, and a villain, at one point. She iterated to him - in rather vicious terms - that just because he's got it all doesn't mean other people do. Just because he's born into the trappings of wealth doesn't mean other people don't put up with whatever they can just to pay back some of their student loans and make rent. He thinks he's all that - but he isn't.

And _then_ nature had to take over and made him _actually _attractive to her.

Lizzie groans, with no attempt at explanation.

Thankfully, he doesn't ask for one.

"Your honesty has been - most refreshing," he says, instead.

And now she has to add guilt to her already overly complex emotions.

Lizzie rubs her eyes. It's really been too long of a day.

"Thanks for not throwing me out. Technically, _you _rented this room."

He lifts one corner of his mouth in a slight half-smile. It's unfairly enticing.

Then he drops the biggest truth bomb of the longest night of her life.

"You know the real reason I fired you?"

Both of them have seemed to stop fighting over semantics at this point.

She looks at him warily. "Yeah?"

"Because I liked you. Because I found you beguiling and alluring and inexplicably distracting," he says life-altering words as if they're just a casual observation. "It had never happened before, and I was horrified that it was happening to me."

She can't help that her jaw is falling slack, probably making her look like a blank-faced ditz.

"I suppose I owe you that much honesty too." He shrugs. Then, despite clearly fighting it, he yawns. "It's a big bed. I don't mind sharing it, if you don't. Goodnight."

And the infuriating man has the _audacity_ to turn over, lie down neatly on one side of the bed, and fall asleep.

* * *

_A/N: So many emotions! That was one of the toughest chapters I've ever had to write, ever. I hope it ended up being a good one!_


	10. Chapter 10

The warmth is the first thing she notices. If she listens hard enough, she can still hear the constant patter of rain outside the house. The whisper of an indubitably chilly wind accompanies the tapping.

But, here, she feels warm.

It takes her five long, slow blinks to confirm that only half of her perceived warmth comes from the duvet that's covering her rumpled business clothes.

Beside her, Darcy snores. He doesn't rouse - not even a little - when she shuffles herself out from under his large, warm arm.

He's either a really deep sleeper - or she really did tire him out with all the accusations last night.

Lizzie sniffs, morning allergies tinged with a touch of regret.

He offered her the bed before he fell asleep - after his reveal of reveals.

It had taken her another hour to calm down enough - and admit she was drowsy enough - to ease herself on to the empty space beside him.

_"Because I liked you. Because I found you beguiling and alluring and inexplicably distracting." _His words play on a loop in her mind.

She closes her eyes as her bare feet land on the rug. It takes her thirty seconds of deep breathing before she's ready to open them again.

If there's anything worse than realizing she's somehow, somewhat fallen in love with the last man on earth she had ever thought she would - it's finding out that he reciprocated those feelings, after he's already stopped.

He mentioned that he _liked_ her - past tense. And he very, very clearly explained that he found the thought of liking her so unattractive that he actually chose to physically distance himself from her professionally, physically, and in every way literally.

How ironic it was that she still managed to appear here - literally dropping into his lap like the cheap gold digger he probably thought she was.

Lizzie wipes a stray tear from her eye.

Somewhere between the indignation of realizing who exactly her pen pal was and the epiphany of how hard she'd fallen for this odd, complex, handsome man - she's subconsciously come to terms with just how impossible this romance was.

To him, she would always be an employee he can fire any day - or at best an unwanted distraction. Her world and his world, outside of the context of chaste book-club level interactions, can never coexist. His happiness and her happiness aren't meant to be the same thing.

Today is going to be the first and last day she ever wakes up beside him.

To his credit, he did choose to come clear with his thought process before he'd gone to sleep. His thoughts were wrong - unjustifiable - but he did own up to them, at least.

She knows she won't ever be able to own up to hers.

Because in what kind of world can a self-sufficient, twenty-first-century woman justify insulting her ex-boss to his face only to turn around and express unrequited love for him? How can she ever explain how she's always felt drawn to him - in multiple ways - but only managed to realize her attachment when it was all too late?

Her pride can only take so much.

Insulated by Darcy's deep, consistent snores and the gradually decreasing pitter-patter outside, Lizzie tiptoes her way towards the backpack on the floor - both its straps irreversibly ruined.

She tries to be quiet as she shifts the bag's contents to ensure proper weight distribution.

Then, _the _book catches her eye.

She can't help the tears that fall now - and she wrangles a sob before it can grow too loud.

She arrived angry last night.

She's leaving heartbroken this morning.

Because she won't just be saying goodbye to Mr. William Darcy, jerk boss extraordinaire.

When she leaves Charlotte's place this morning to pursue her own new tomorrow, she'll be saying goodbye to Liam too.

Lizzie wipes her cheeks with her left hand - and reaches out with her right.

She lifts herself until she's seated on the white wooden chair, carefully minimizing any squeaking the old planks tend to produce. Her hands reach quickly - instinctively - for the stationery on the table.

Within minutes, she's finished her first page.

There's too much to say and share. There's too much to explore and too little time to do it. What had begun as an innocent note from Charlotte's anonymous boarder has managed to take up such deep root in her heart that this letter feels like the most painful surgical procedure she's ever had to endure.

With this farewell letter - with every sincere wish she includes for his health and happiness - she feels a small part of her heart chip away. She apologizes for every vile thing she's ever said about her boss. She pokes fun at him for being a closet romance lover. She tries her best to express that she never meant to lie to him - or to be anything but helpful to DBC. They crossed paths because of DBC - but neither of them need to let that fact dictate what they do for the rest of their lives.

She bids him goodbye.

Then she folds up the letter, leaves it between the pages of the book she's now decided to let him keep, gather her meager belongings, and slips out the door.

* * *

The bed beneath him feels familiar - as does the pillow and direction of the vent.

What feels less familiar is the subconscious way he's contained himself to one side of the bed, squeezing himself to make room for another person. He's slept alone all his life - and it's almost miraculous how reflexive it is to make room for someone else.

Darcy sighs as he shifts into his pillow, unwilling to face the day.

His side of the bed gives him a view of the open closet door - as well as all the other items in the room, untouched since the night before.

He clears his throat, unsure on how exactly to approach this.

How does one say 'I just realized I've fallen for both versions of you, independently' without sounding exaggerated or creepy?

He sighs one more time, closing his eyes, before mustering enough courage to open both his eyelids and his mouth.

"I know anything I say now cannot provide sufficient reparation," he starts talking, still facing away from her. He can't look her in the eye, not yet. "It was childish of me to allow my attraction to you to lead to my dismissal of your services. You have a bright mind and deserve recognition for your contribution to DBC."

He waits for her response.

All he hears is the gentle whizzing of a steady breath.

He blinks a bit before resuming his confession. "You have made many valid points regarding the state of my life. It is not my right to criticize others' ambitions when I possess such a complex relationship to my own. For me, having lived a life of duty - it is difficult to consider any other sort of moral compass besides."

He shifts slightly, beginning to face her - before deciding to delay it for just a little bit more.

"I apologize for my ill-informed decision, Lizzy. It is my most heartfelt desire to further our acquaintance - in any way, shape, or form. If you would allow me - "

He stops at the sight of the empty bed. The whistling he had heard - now examined in the light of day - was clearly just the whispering of the dying wind outside.

Disappointment leads to consideration and then to resolve in his heart - and Darcy knows then what he intends to do with the mess of his life Lizzie Bennet has somehow managed to leave behind.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry if this was more of a placer chapter compared to the drama of the last one. Also, fair warning, there will be a time jump at the start of the next chapter. I hope you won't find it too jarring. Here ends Act II out of IV!_


	11. Chapter 11

_**Two Months Later**_

* * *

Never before in her life had Lizzie felt as deliberate about a life decision as walking away from Charlotte's house that morning. The rain was still drizzling - and it had taken her a remarkable amount of effort to keep it all together until she'd gotten on the bus.

From there, it was a one-way street to her aunt and uncle's home - never to look back.

She's never been close with Uncle Edward or Aunt Maddie before; there's always been a chasm of sorts between her affluent relatives who managed to make their way out of the cutthroat world and her own impoverished family. Mom and Uncle Edward had the same inheritance. One saved and grew his - the other spent hers.

The terms between them haven't been amicable ever since that urban legend of a family history.

But Lizzie remembers, once, getting a Christmas invitation from the Gardiner family - inviting her and Jane to spend the holidays with them. Dad's pride and Mom's bitterness had said no.

So two months ago, experiencing the truest dead end of her young life yet, Lizzie took her chance to cash in that invitation.

The world has changed significantly ever since.

Who knew that her perseverance in becoming a commercial designer, however impressive, was just as misinformed as William Darcy's stupid loyalty to his overbearing aunt? Who knew her talents - freed from the illusion of having to 'make it' in the shiny Manhattan world of stressful bosses and life-sucking bonuses - could actually grow back to being a source of joy?

Uncle Edward is the head of a regional publication - and it's found its star photo journalist in Elizabeth Bennet.

On days like this - when the view is idyllic and her latest assignment done - Lizzie sits where she is on the Gardiner front porch, idly sketching the view of the park across the street. Just a few walls away, Aunt Maddie steeps tea the way Charlotte does, serving them with a side of homemade cookies.

Lizzie blinks, fighting another wave of sentimentality.

If her parents had allowed these family ties to mend earlier on - if she had grown up with the calming influences of a hardworking uncle and a sensible aunt - would she at least have shared _certain _things in common with Darcy?

She remembers Liam - _her _Liam - the sensitive soul who loves reading old novels and waxes poetic about profound life perspectives. She wonders if he's retired, just like her own pen name has, or if he's moved on to finding the next confidant-slash-crush-slash-maybe-something-more.

Lizzie smirks at the irony of how she - the one forever labelled by Mom to be ineligible - had somehow managed to capture the heart, however tentatively, of one of the _most _eligible bachelors of her generation - and still turned him down.

She's thought of contacting him. The intensity of what was, in hindsight, their one and only true conversation left ripples in her heart that took days to recede. She's thought of confiding in Aunt Maddie - but where exactly would she begin?

_'So there's this guy who is both my enemy and my secret penpal soulmate_' doesn't exactly sound like a textbook conversation starter.

"A cup of tea, Lizzie?" Aunt Maddie appears with the promised beverage. Lizzie smiles.

"Thank you."

Her aunt is kind, motherly, observant, yet respectful. In other words, she's everything Mom never was.

No wonder the adults never got along.

"Need a bite with it?" The thoughtfulness is comfortingly predictable.

"I can get it myself. Thank you." Lizzie smiles. It occurs to her that she's been smiling a lot more genuinely ever since she got here.

"And if you ever need to talk - "

"Your ears are wide open."

Aunt Maddie nods benevolently. She waits it out for a few more seconds before excusing herself for the predestined dinner prep. Lizzie watches her go.

The thing is - there's only one person in the entire universe right now who can grasp and understand her predicament.

His name is William Darcy.

Lizzie's eyes slide to the phone that lies dormant next to her freshly-poured cup of tea. She reaches out for the drink - but ends up picking up the device instead.

Almost absent-mindedly, she taps her way through her ocean of apps and launches the one with lots of pretty homes inside. She may never have paid a single cent of rent to Charlotte during her Rosings visits, but she _does _have an Airbnb account.

She scrolls through the suggestions - drooling over a home or two and laughing at the fact that the platform thinks suggesting a Norway mansion would make her magically have the money to go there. She types in the familiar search words to find Charlotte's apartment, her muscle memory still intact after asking one too many acquaintance to add Charlotte's listing to their wishlists.

Then she freezes.

Because the listing isn't there.

She's exchanged texts with Charlotte since arriving at the Gardiners'. She remembers the relief at Charlotte's assurance that Darcy still left a five-star review for his most recent stay. She knows the Collins household _needs _that supplementary income to survive.

Then why is the listing gone?

What could possibly have happened to the most sensible and cyclical person in the world to make her suddenly stop something that used to do so well for her?

Lizzie frowns.

She calls Charlotte - repeatedly.

She leaves messages and texts.

Twelve hours later, without a hint of news from her friend, Lizzie panics.

Then Lizzie, amidst promises to return when she can, packs up her things from the sheltered haven that is her aunt and uncle's home - and buys her ticket to Rosings.

* * *

"Char!" She bangs on the door for the third time.

The neighborhood that greeted her upon arrival looks as bland as it always has. True to the timelessness of Rosings - everything looks, acts, and feels the same.

But a hunch inside her itches with rising panic that something _is _different - that something _is _wrong.

"Char!" The side of her fist lands repeatedly on the wooden door again.

Her voice carries loudly over the quiet suburb. Lord have mercy if there's currently another guest staying in Charlotte's place. There would be absolutely no excuse for her ruining Charlotte's listing reviews this time.

Who wants to stay at a place with a one-star review stating 'crazy lady bangs door in the middle of the day'?

The quick recollection of Charlotte's mysterious listing disappearance sends tears to Lizzie's eyes.

What if something has happened to her dearest childhood friend? What if she - in her selfish isolation and recovery - has somehow missed grave and important news about Billy and Charlotte Collins?

"Char, please - open up," Lizzie begs now, her voice beginning to grow hoarse.

The windows are shut, all the curtains drawn. The place looks deserted.

Is it deserted - and, if yes - for how long?

Lizzie glances down at her phone again for the sinking confirmation that Charlotte _still _hasn't gotten back to her, for over twenty-four hours now.

"No one lives there now."

Lizzie twists around at the voice.

It's a common voice - using the most typical middle-aged white man enunciation. The neighbor talking to her from his own front lawn looks exactly as he sounds.

Lizzie vaguely remembers Charlotte's allusions to her cluster of neighbors so textbook that they might as well be displays in a museum about small town USA.

"Mr. Phelps, right?" Lizzie asks, staying firmly on the Collins' property.

"Philips." The man grins. He looks kindly enough. "The Collins moved out two weeks ago, if it's them you're looking for."

"Oh."

Half of the theories in Lizzie's mind calm down. The less morbid half - the puzzled half - remains.

"Did they say where they're going?" It's frustrating to be reduced to asking a strange man about her best friend - but she doesn't exactly have a collection of clues at the moment.

"Tour the world, I think - talked about a long-needed honeymoon. The buyer was so generous that the Collinses probably don't need to work again for another ten years."

A shrug and a grin later, Mr. Philips resumes raking his leaves.

Lizzie lets the words sink in - with growing shock, confusion, and dread.

"They sold the house?" She asks, leaning forward now. That guest wing of Charlotte's home - that one consistency she could always count on amidst breakups and triumphs and adventures and tears - can't truly be gone - can it?

"My nephew did the papers." Of course he did. It's Rosings: population tiny. Everyone's related somehow. "Said the buyer didn't even negotiate."

Her sensations start to blur. She feels suspended in time and space. She came thinking her friends were lost, but maybe she's the one lost.

She's standing here, at the door of the room that has stowed so much of her dreams of late - a room that became the setting of one of the most illuminating and devastating nights of her life - and she can't get the stupid door to open.

Everything feels so near - yet so hopelessly far.

"Do you know who bought it?" She asks, suddenly needing to know. There's very little chance old Mr. Philips knows. It's luck enough that he's told her what he already has.

The neighbor smiles. "One of those regulars, Andrew said, from New York. Guess big city boys don't care about burning their money on a bum deal."

The world swirls just a little more. For the first time since she went to Uncle Edward and Aunt Maddie's, she feels off-balance.

"Heard the boy works for old Ms. Catherine de Bourgh," Mr. Philips carries on, raking away, "I think Andrew called him Mr. Darcy."

* * *

_A/N: Looking back now, I probably should have written a little more about Lizzie's time at the Gardiners. It's so nice there! But we need to get the plot moving along, don't we? Darcy won't be showing up again anytime soon (I'm sorry!), but I'll try to keep things interesting until then!_


	12. Chapter 12

"Heard the boy works for old Ms. Catherine de Bourgh." Mr. Philips rakes away. "I think Andrew called him Mr. Darcy."

"I - see."

It doesn't take long for Lizzie to end the conversation with one made-up reason or another. And it takes even less long for her to plop down on the lowest step towards the guest wing, fish out her laptop from its backpack jail, and flip up the screen with a lot more energy than is probably advisable for an already fast-aging device.

She drafts the e-mail fast and furiously, hitting every key with focused ferocity like a thousand different nails. She has his e-mail, from her not-so-distant DBC days, even if it's only accessible from her work account - and she doesn't think twice to give him a piece of her mind.

For a moment that evening - that night woven permanently into the tapestry her short and boring and frustrating life - he sounded almost ready to apologize. By the time both of them had fallen asleep, he hadn't even sounded angry anymore.

It had taken her a whole entire night to get over her tumultuous emotions. She penned that last letter to Liam as an entirely different person than she had been the night before.

Was it too unrealistic of her to have expected the same for him?

_MR. FREAKIN DARCY!_

_Care to explain how you BOUGHT OFF my best friend's house and only livelihood just to prove that you win? I can say it. Fine. YOU WIN. You anre your stupid money and snobby looks and overbaring personality can get you ANYTHING YOU WANT._

_And you know what?_

_You couldn't have me._

_I wasn't bought. Or buyable._

_You said all these flowery things and the person I fell inl ove with was LIAM - AND NOT YOU._

_I don't care how much you think you have the right to do this because you don't. You and your privilege and your overinherited white behind will NEVER UNDERSTAND real life. You dont know why we need money. you dont know why we need digniyt._

_All you ever think about IS YOU._

The words keep going, and she ends up typing, signing, and sending the most accusatory two thousand words she's ever typed in her life.

And then her inbox gets that line - about sending failure.

And she reconnects to the Collins' wifi (thank God Darcy hasn't changed the password) to send her peace of mind to the man behind all her current troubles and paranoia.

Suddenly, the tranquility of her retreat with Uncle Ed and Aunt Maddie feels a lifetime ago.

Then the notifications start popping in - and the freshly-anchored Internet connection fuels update after update after update -

Until all three of Charlotte's e-mails come in.

Lizzie sits up with sudden alacrity, a sense of strange foreboding streaming in her veins. She's avoided most of the outside world this past month - but at what cost?

She knows her hands are shaking, and her heart too, when she drives her cursor to click on the first, and apparently shortest, one.

_Hi Lizzie,_

_I'm sorry for the short notice, but Billy was adamant that we start our trip as soon as we can. Everything inside is exactly as you know it to be. I've locked the guest wing, but the spare key to the front door is in that exact pot you know. I hope you enjoy it, though I'm pretty sure you will._

_Love,  
Charlotte_

She clicks the next.

_Hi Lizzie,_

_I still haven't heard back from you, but I know you should have gotten the notice in the mail by now. I know I'm using e-mail like a grandmother, but there aren't that many consistently reliable international communication options than one would think. I wanted to tell you ahead of time, but I guess it would be more of a surprise this way._

_Whatever it was between you and him, I hope this was the right step moving forward. I promise I did warn him about this being too much, too fast. But, as you know, he's a stubborn one._

_I am back to our itinerary now, for another very delightful evening of wine-tasting. I can't think of anyone else I would rather have enjoying our old house as much as you._

_Love,  
Charlotte_

The third e-mail was sent just last week.

_Lizzie,_

_I don't know what you're doing or why you're off the grid, but the latest news that Billy got from our old neighbors makes me think you still don't know._

_A week after the night you were both at our place, Mr. Darcy bought the house from us. He said it was a special place - for him and for you. We were hesitant until we were really, completely, utterly convinced that he meant what he said. He knew we don't make the best money on a regular basis, and the windfall was actually quite welcome. The money gave us the chance for a long-wanted break, and it can make so many of Billy's products a reality. Mr. Darcy was excruciatingly kind about it all, without a bit of condescension. And so we agreed._

_Imagine our surprise when the papers came and showed that he wasn't interested in buying the house for him, but rather for you. We questioned him about it, and he just kept insisting that it was the least he could do. We'd already plotted our itinerary and bought our tickets by then, so I have to admit we didn't spend too much time dwelling upon the implications of it all. For a moment, I even thought you knew. It was only Mr. Darcy's own allegations about this purchase being a surprise that disabused me of the idea that you had agreed to this._

_After the transaction had been finalized, I thought he would soon choose to tell you - or, at the least, that the lawyers would._

_Given that you still haven't visited the house all this time, I can only guess that you are either only learning about this fact now or have chosen to avoid the reality of this gesture._

_I hope it's not the latter, Lizzie. Mr. Darcy is a kinder, gentler man than you may ever have understood him to be._

_His gift has given Billy and me the chance at a new chapter of life._

_Maybe, if you let it, it can change your life just as much._

_Love,  
Charlotte_

And Lizzie sits where she is, clutching her whirring laptop, and stares into dead space for five, long, impossible minutes.

Because, for once, he _hasn't _acted as if it were all about him - and she's the one who did.

* * *

The sun is low by the time she finds the courage to grab that spare key and slip inside, tear stains all over her face.

She hasn't visited this side of the house that many times, but she has enough awareness of the general layout of the place to know which areas matter more. The Collins left most of their furniture and a large amount of the decor. The uneasy familiarity makes her explore slowly and deliberately.

She slips her way towards the guest wing, hoping for something she can't quite place.

When she swings the door open, he's not there - and the room isn't filled with roses and declarations of love. There's no 'I love you, Lizzie' poster above the bed or even some kind of indication that this unexpected purchase is the beginning of a magnified scavenger hunt that will lead her to find him.

_Dear Liz,_

_I hope this makes up for making you homeless. You were right. You always were. There are some shackles I sorely need to break free. Have a wonderful day._

_-Liam_

She finds the note on the table a dozen steps in - the painfully brief note that proves to her, once and for all, that he wants nothing else to do with her.

Isn't 'Have a wonderful day' just a tamer variation of 'Have a wonderful life'? It's what college acquaintances say to each other when they part ways after graduation. It's what kindly neighbors holler when they don't know you well enough to say anything more.

It's not what people who have shared their most intimate thoughts say to each other. It's not what people who have mutually admitted to having romantic feelings for each other use to sign off.

She sits on the bed, hands clutching the note.

It takes her another half hour to calm down sufficiently to write a second, more reconciliatory e-mail.

Then she waits - for days.

But he never replies.

* * *

_A/N: I know Lizzie overacted, but I think she's a little justified after all her self-control two months ago. Thanks for reading!_


	13. Chapter 13

It's been one month.

It's been thirty-one days since she sent those two e-mails that have practically closed off any chance she still had with a person who – now that she thinks about it – might as well be the love of her life. It's been twenty-five days since she officially moved into the house he's bought her, twenty-five days since she's visited that guest wing every day like a pilgrimage, wishing for a specter to emerge.

It's been thirty-one days of pain and moving on. And now, it's five days to Christmas – when even an airport as small as Rosings' can feel crowded.

"Oomph."

"Excuse me! I'm so sorry!"

Lizzie shrugs off the frantic mother's apology for her wandering, hyperactive toddler. "It's okay."

"Sorry. Sorry. Nathan!"

Mother and son scurry away.

Lizzie looks up at the boarding screen. It's only in seasons like this that gate number 7 ever bothers getting used. It'll be a first for her to see what lies past the restrooms after Gate 4.

A quick look outside the glass-paneled walls indicate the beginning of that snowstorm that's threatening to delay her flight to visit Jane. Nothing short of a blizzard warning could have induced her to come to this minuscule airport this early.

The PA system rounds up. Lizzie waits, mentally begging the universe not to let her be stuck in this airport any longer than the two hours she has to be.

Luck isn't on her side, as it never seems to be these days, and her flight is announced to be delayed _again_. The Siri-like voice goes on, listing flight after flight after flight.

"All of them," a male voice laments behind her. The faceless man heaves a long, weary sigh.

And there's something about that male voice – an eerie sort of familiarity – that has her turning.

"Darcy?" His name escapes her instantly.

He meets her eye with a look of surprise, though probably not as deep of the kind of surprise as she herself feels.

"You're in town," he says civilly, a small smile on his face.

He looks – different. There's a casualness to him that never was there before. His hair is still short, but now complemented with a hint of stubble. His coat is still expensive, but not quite as pristinely pressed.

"I live here – now," she answers, falteringly.

His eyes widen slightly before he chuckles, as if at himself.

"Right – I should have – I'm glad – "

"Thank you."

"For what?"

Everything – she wants to say: Thank you for shelling out money and goodwill. Thank you for still treating me like a human being right now. Thank you for magically appearing out of nowhere just like I've dreamed of.

"For your – gift," she offers lamely.

He smirks. "Sure. Glad you're – using it. I mean, are you?"

"Yes – I like it – very much."

For the next half minute, they stare each other down like textbook awkward teenagers on their very first day of school.

"I just came from my aunt's," he breaks the silence. She blames herself inside for having forgotten that he has family here more than she does. "I, uhm, signed off all my shares today."

"Shares to – DBC?"

"Yeah." He smiles, and he looks more genuinely happy than she's ever seen him. "I still have my old assets, but liquidating these will help me expand _L'avant_ faster."

"La – vant?"

"My start-up? We, uhm, use our tech to set-up security measures for rural communities. Some churches and schools and suburbs value privacy but still need communal contacts, especially in cases of emergency, so we provide it to them through this system we've developed that enables them to – "

He stops mid-sentence before offering an almost apologetic chuckle. "I'm sorry. I tend to go on and on when we – "

"No, it's – fascinating." She smiles. It _is _fascinating. _He _is fascinating. To see this caged bird go free and soar is one of the most beautiful things she's ever witnessed happen to someone in her life. "You're finally pursuing your passions."

"And I have you to thank for encouraging me to do that."

He says his line with so much simple sincerity that Lizzie feels her throat clogging up.

She blinks any potential tears away. "I – I don't think I deserve the credit."

"But you do – all of it."

He's getting a tad too sentimental without acting sentimental at all – and she finds herself treading very dangerous waters.

"Do you want – coffee?" She offers, before she can regret it.

To her relief, his face lights up in a smile. "I'd love some coffee."

* * *

Airport cafés, much like airport anythings, aren't exactly representative of the best in their field. In a location as out of the way as Rosings, it's amazing that they manage to locate a functioning café at all.

"I suppose there _are _certain benefits to hiring your own people." She smiles after his latest story on an eccentric new employee.

"Absolutely." Darcy smiles. He smiles a lot now. The way he leans back on the chair feels new as well. He's not slouching, but he's not stiff either. "You have _no one _to blame for poor HR choices, for one."

Her smile deepens, and they both chuckle.

They've spent the last ninety minutes exchanging all kinds of updates about their respective new lives. He is passionate about _L'avant_ and can't stop talking about the benefits of being one's own boss. She tells him the funnier incidents of photojournalism moments.

It's as if the universe has chosen to take the strain of their former professional relationship and the accelerated intimacy of their written correspondence and blend them into an almost comforting in between - a level of interaction that feels normal, achievable - friendly, even.

But the elephant in the room remains.

Lizzie clears her throat - and her mind - while he flags down the only waitress in the tiny café for a water refill.

"So anyway," she starts, shuffling somewhat.

"Yes?"

She meets his eyes - his moving, brilliant eyes. He's not a casual man. She doesn't think he ever will be.

But there is an openness and simplicity to his movements now that she would never have believed possible of William Darcy, jerk boss extraordinaire.

It's as if he's a whole different person.

She knows, to a certain degree, that she herself is.

The crackling PA system announces the flights that will finally be boarding in the next half hour. Hers is one of them.

The time limit, quite frankly, sucks.

She shifts and clears her voice again.

"So, like, maybe around a month ago - I may have - sent you some e-mails." She looks down. Her fingers curl around her coffee mug to secure herself. "I don't know if you - "

"You e-mailed me?"

Her head snaps up instantly.

"You didn't - receive them?"

"I - I, uhm." He adjusts his shoulders slightly. Then _he _offers an apologetic grin. "Were they to my DBC address? I have to admit I haven't checked that account since - well, _that _night."

Her heart races. It has nothing to do with the caffeine.

"You haven't read my e-mails?"

"I'm sorry, Lizzie, I should have known you might have tried to contact me there. I think they may have deleted the account already, and I - "

"Oh, no - no! Don't apologize!"

"Were they very important? That is to say - I would have been extremely happy to hear from you - once I overcame my selfish anger. You were right in everything you said that night, and it took me great effort to be humble enough to consider the truth in your words."

"I could totally have said things better. You were right too - about so many things - and for you to buy me a _house _after everything I had hurled at you is beyond all comprehension. You shouldn't have - "

"I've never admitted to buying the house, have I?"

His question cuts her short - and all she can see is his torturously handsome smirk and bottomless eyes.

The PA system starts reciting the flight numbers slated for immediate boarding. Both of their flights are on the wretched list.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"Thank you, as well."

There is too much to say and too much to feel. Their fragile truce is a poor facade for the turmoil she feels inside.

The PA system lady gets angry.

"I guess - that's you," says Darcy, not looking away for a single moment.

She tries to hide her sigh.

"Yeah, and you."

It's going to be a long and thoughtful walk to Gate 7.

* * *

_A/N: We are almost there! They will have their happy ending!_

_In other news, But That's What Makes It Love is now available for pre-orders on the Kindle Store as That's What Makes It Love by Iris Lim. I am blessed to have a platform to share my stories here with you, and I hope this publication can now reach even more fellow Austen fans. Thank you for your constant support!_


	14. Chapter 14

He tries to walk slowly, to aim for a casual gait over his usual driven strides. These last ten minutes are the slowest he's ever relocated since his first steps as a toddler. But despite every effort, here they are, where their gates inevitably diverge much like the proverbial paths in the yellow woods.

He turns to face her, and she is stunning.

He's always been drawn to her eyes, to her movements, to the intensity of her being. But a different him was also drawn to her insight, and her wit, and her fascinatingly contemporary take on timeless themes.

To know both the bewitching intern and the faceless correspondent were one person – and to add to that knowledge the newfound ease he has in her lively presence – is frankly overwhelming. And it takes every last drop of his self-control not to drop to his knees and beg for her hand in marriage like every historical suitor of bygone times.

He hasn't had the courage to pick up another Austen since that fateful night in the then-Collins home.

Maybe today, on the plane, he'll read one again.

"You can call me anytime – or text – or, e-mail," he makes out awkwardly before offering a tentative smile. He keeps his hands firmly in his coat pockets, determined not to assault her by impulse. He's lucky enough that she's talking to him now.

"The new e-mail – right." She smiles. Her eyes rival the brightest stars in the sky. He can tell that she's happy, much happier than she ever was before.

And if she's doing so well without him – should he even try to hope that she'll consider letting him disrupt the equilibrium she has finally found?

If there's anything today's chance meeting has done, it's proving to him that he's not over Lizzie Bennet – and probably will never be.

Too bad she seems happy to just keep things that way.

"You have my number – right?" It's her turn to ask.

Darcy looks dumbly down before procuring his phone from his pocket. "Same number as before?"

"Yup."

"Then yes."

"Good."

"And you have – mine."

"Yes. I do."

Around them, a mixture of relieved and frazzled travellers hustle to haul their carry-on luggage to their respective gates. The clouds have finally cleared a little. It's a window of opportunity they can't afford to miss.

Darcy sighs, though he tries best to hide it.

"I guess I'll – see you around?"

"Mm hmm." She's swaying slightly back and forth. He's not sure what that mannerism means.

"I hope I'm not keeping you. My flight is – just a bit later."

"I know." But she doesn't move.

All around them, people move.

Neither of them move.

And Darcy tries to pull from the recesses of his mind what could be considered proper social behavior at a strange point in time like this.

"It was a pleasure seeing you again today," he says, realizing too late how stiff he must have sounded.

It's a good thing she smiles softly in response. "Me too."

Slowly, experimentally, he opens his arms. She steps forward slightly to give him a cordial hug.

He knows it's cordial – and short, and proper.

It just feels like it should be so much more than it is.

"I'll – see you around," he offers, again.

"See you," she echoes.

And he lets go and turns away before he can get teary-eyed.

* * *

He makes a bee line for his gate and chooses a seat as far away from the main concourse as possible. He's always been a man who feels keenly – an attribute that has led to his lifelong love of novels that engage human emotion in a variety of ways.

But, in the life he led before the whirlwind that is Lizzie Bennet, keeping those emotions inside had been easy.

She's changed him – in so many more ways than one – and the fact that he can't help expressing his feelings when it comes to her is one of them.

He likes to think he's kept his cool, likes to think he's been able to pull off a perfectly civil and appropriate conversation with her today, despite the pleasant suddenness of their convergence.

He's tried everything in his power to be a perfect gentleman – to prove, somehow, that he really is a better man than he used to be.

She didn't turn him away – but neither has she, quite reasonably, asked him to stay.

What did he expect anyway?

Just because he still likes her doesn't mean she likes him back. Just because his admiration and infatuation for her has only festered and grown doesn't mean any passing interest she may have had for him before hasn't fizzled and faded away.

All day, today, she's reciprocated every nicety he's offered. She didn't do more, or less.

Isn't that all he's allowed to expect?

Keen to distract himself until the long parade of people lining up for boarding thins, Darcy pulls out his laptop. His Google Chrome window lights up the screen, set to his e-mail inbox.

The device takes a few seconds to connect successfully to the Internet. The e-mails start flooding in the moment the connection is established.

More than half a dozen e-mails have loaded in a split second – but Darcy only has eyes for the latest one.

From: **Airbnb**  
Subject: _William, accept Elizabeth Bennet's trip invitation to Rosings, Ohio_

His fingers tremble a little as he guides his trackpad to open the e-mail.

_Get ready for Rosings!_

_Hi William, Elizabeth booked a place in Rosings and added you as a guest._

Then, right below that single line of text, a big, red button beckons: "Accept trip invitation."

He clicks it – and another e-mail chimes in right away.

From: **Airbnb  
**Subject: _Reservation Itinerary from Elizabeth Bennet_

He opens it.

_Hi William,_

_Elizabeth Bennet booked a place in Rosings and shared the itinerary with you._

_Check in Today_

_Check Out TBA_

The pictures attached are images long seared into his mental archive. It's that room, _their _room – the place where this entire probably fated relationship began.

He looks up to search for her in the crowd. It's silly, he knows. Her flight started boarding ten minutes before his did.

But he can and should afford to be silly sometimes.

So he packs up his laptop, grabs all his carry-ons, and runs back towards Gate 7.

The gate is empty when he gets there, save for a few frowning airline crew members. He really has no reason to think she's still around.

"Hey," she calls softly, from his side – and he turns instantly to face her, phone in hand.

* * *

"Hey," he replies, a little breathless. She tries to smile as demurely as she can.

The urgency on his face makes her feel just that much more hope that this move may not end up being a total disaster.

"I, uhm – the flight was overbooked," she explains, a little hastily. All attempts at a soft and feminine smile end up on the sheepish side of things. She sways her arms nervously. "I – took up the offer to be bumped to the next one."

"I – see."

"Yeah."

She watches him intently as he walks closer – until he's standing right in front of her. She catches a whiff of that smell that's distinctly _him_ – that personal scent that she likes to believe she still remembers from their one and only overnight encounter.

"I have a question," he says, his voice riveting and low.

"Yeah?"

"It's about this trip invitation I got." He shakes his smartphone in the air.

"Mm hmm." She tries not to hold her breath. She does anyway.

"I really want to block off my schedule for it." There's a touch of British-ness in how he says 'schedule.' It just heightens his charm. "But I may need a little bit of – clarification."

"I see."

"Yes."

"About what?" She plays dumb. Her nerves are all over, and she hopes they don't show.

He offers a lop-sided grin, and she almost gives up all pretense of civility and lunges herself at him.

"I see there is a beginning date to this – but no end."

"Right."

"And may I – be enlightened as to what such a fact could imply?"

She smiles softly, a little more at ease. "I was thinking – of maybe leaving it open-ended? That is, as long as you'll have me."

"But I don't want it that way," he says. Her face falls instantly. But he goes on, "Because if we're in this, it won't be open-ended. I won't let it be. There's no ending to this that I will consider acceptable. If we go on this trip, the only option I find acceptable is the distinctly close-ended, probably-exclusive-for-the-rest-of-your-life sort. I refuse to play with feelings - yours, or mine. I don't do anything halfway, and if we're in this, we're _in this_."

She stares at him for one whole minute, the weight of his words sinking in slowly.

"Lizzie, I know it's overwhelming, but I – "

"Yes."

It's his turn to stop.

She reaches out her hand. She hopes he's going to shake it. She hopes that if he's crazy enough to propose that their relationship go so serious so fast – then he won't blame her for being up to it too.

"I accept," she declares.

Slowly, beautifully, his face morphs into the most handsome smile in the universe.

"Deal," he says.

And he doesn't just shake her hand.

He grasps it with so much certainty that he pulls her forward into his arms – and kisses her right then and there.

"Oh!"

The surprise lasts for all of two seconds – before she's kissing him back with complete investment and, in more archaic terms, a major case of reckless abandon.

She anchors her forearms around his neck. He presses her close by the small of her back.

To everyone passing by, it's basically a free show.

But she's a little too preoccupied to care.

Because here she is, Lizzie Bennet – finally, _finally_ the heroine of her own story – finding that elusive new beginning with the one person who's long understood her inside and out. He's her prince, her knight in shining armor – her partner and her soul mate.

It took them a while to figure it out, but she couldn't be more relieved that they eventually did.

And when the PA system interrupts its own flight-listing with a reminder that travelers may not obstruct the hallways – repeat, may not obstruct – all they can do is chuckle, smile, and keep kissing some more.

* * *

_A/N: It's such a cheesy rom-com moment, isn't it? But I couldn't help it. The story came to me this way! Also, quick note: I made up the part where you could set a trip to "indefinite." I just needed it for this story's sake. I hope it was a happy reunion for them! We just have one short epilogue to go :)_


	15. Chapter 15

**_Two Years Later_**

* * *

The oven timer dings, and Lizzie reaches for her mitts on autopilot. Her left thumb twists her ring to the right orientation before she slips her left hand into the mitt that reads 'Pride' and her right hand into the one that reads 'Prejudice.'

They never did outgrow the book that connected them in the first place.

She hums the song they played at the wedding, with just that much sway in her step. It's a new recipe she picked up thanks to her sojourn into the heart of San Francisco Chinatown last week – and it smells _almost _as good as the dish she'd stared at the entire time she interviewed the fusion-restauranteur-turned-community-leader.

Who knew cheese and rice worked so well together in a gratin?

She hopes Will will like it.

Then again, he's always all smiles when they both return from their respective business trips. Rosings air travel probably received a huge boost ever since they chose to make this cozy, irreplaceable house their permanent home.

They still vacation elsewhere often, and far be it from her to complain about Will's ritzy Manhattan penthouse and the many hot, hot weekends they've had there.

But there's something special here.

And it's nice to know they're not throwing away the home that Charlotte had lovingly created during her years as mistress of this domain.

"Smells divine in here, Lizzie!"

Lizzie's smile is genuine. "Thanks, Aunt Maddie. I need you and Uncle Ed well filled for your drive back."

"Oh, trust me, you don't have to tell Ed twice," the lovely lady coos before she moves to help Lizzie set the table. "Come, make me useful. Your uncle won't forgive me if you miss a deadline because I've been a passive guest."

Lizzie laughs. "I _never _miss my deadlines."

"Of course not. Our Lizzie is too good to make any claims of nepotism stick." Aunt Maddie pecks Lizzie on the head before she resumes crafting the napkins into those nice little swans with her magic fingers – and Lizzie's heart warms all over again at the woman who, in a span of less than three years, has become more of a mother to her than her own one ever was.

Lizzie chuckles as they work the finishing touches of their already decent lunch spread. Her ears are on high alert for the sound she's longing the most to hear.

The door swings open as if on cue – and William announces, "I'm home!" in his strong, definite voice.

Lizzie jumps up happily from her seat and runs to the foyer.

It's a good thing Will already put down his suitcase in anticipation before she launches herself into his arms.

"I missed you," she mumbles into his shoulder.

Her shoulder tingles when his five o'clock shadow frames his kiss. "I missed you more."

"There is no way – " She squeals when he lifts her – and it's too bad they have company.

Payback will have to wait.

* * *

He doesn't waste much time between his polite goodbyes to the Gardiners and his full-scale, full-court press of husbandly seduction.

He likes these relatives. Their willingness to housesit for their niece (while abiding by all of their rules, no less) is something he truly admires and appreciates.

But there are days when he much prefers to have his lovely wife to himself.

"Will!" She laughs when he lifts her from behind and transports her directly to their bedroom.

He explores her body, as readily as he did in their earliest days of intimacy, with the tenderness of a lifelong lover and the hunger of a returning soldier. He misses her keenly every day they're apart, and there is something special – sacred, even – whenever they get to come together again.

Thank God her response seems to be all joy and agreement today.

He still remembers that day last year when he came back to a sick, sobbing wife and a burglarized basement. It was an incident that proved _L'avant_'s necessity and potential – and drove him to promote the company not just as a passion or business – but as a mission too.

He's thankful their house doesn't share any walls with any neighbors by the time they lay panting, smiling, and smirking next to each other's very sweaty bodies.

"That was something else." She grins, her hair brushing her bare shoulders.

"Yes, it was." He leans over to kiss her, soundly. Her body moves pliably against his. To the outside world, his wife is a five-star journalist, a five-star cook, and a five-star Airbnb superhost.

To him, she's perfect – his very own dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.

"We finished Bridget Jones last time," she announces when she rolls up to get dressed five minutes later. She turns to look at him over her shoulder. "Should we binge BBC again? Or you want to try another one?"

"It's high time they do another remake, isn't it?" Darcy thinks out loud. Sure, watching every available variation on _Pride and Prejudice _is their homecoming thing – but they're fast running out of fresh material. "Though I did enjoy the web series one."

"It was pretty great." Elizabeth smiles. "Some stories just stand the test of time, you know?"

They do – some stories just do.

And as far as he's concerned, William Darcy likes to think their story will too.

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has supported this unusual modern AU. I am constantly so very grateful for the support in this fandom. I read and reply to every review as much as I can! I've been struggling the past few days with a stranger basically creating an account just to leave a one-star Amazon review on my book, and it just feels so personal, unfair, and frustrating. Incidents like this make me all the more thankful for the support here! Thank you to each and every one of you who finished this story. You are my biggest motivation! :)_


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